Dappled Shadows and Flagstone Floors
by Westel
Summary: First in the BilboFrodoSam series.  For those apparently few who still read FrodoBilboSam stories.
1. Chapter 1

Dappled Shadows and Flagstone Floors 

(First in the BFS Series)

westel

It was the year 1386 in Shire-reckoning, in the early fall when apples were ripe for the picking and the late summer rains had produced vast crops of hay and barley.

The teenager sat under a lone tree near a golden hay-field, his nose buried in the sack of mushrooms he'd pilfered from Farmer Maggot's crop. It was only a quarter-peck - nothing the old gaffer would miss out of his abundance. Maggot's fields were well-known in the area, and Frodo Baggins was not the only hobbit who filched vegetables on occasion. He sat back, savoring the aroma, his mind set on washing the harvest in a little stream on the way. He would eat them all of course, before getting home, otherwise he'd have to share them with a score of other young and always hungry hobbits. The slight pang of guilt he felt when he picked them nagged at him, but not enough to persuade him to return them.

He knew he shouldn't be taking Farmer Maggot's vegetables, naturally. His cousin Bilbo had cautioned Frodo many times about his light-fingered practices, notably a few days ago, on the occasion of his last visit. "You're going to get caught one of these days, my lad," he had warned. "You mark my words! Maggot's a good soul, but he won't abide this constant snatching, from you or anyone else. Don't think old Rory doesn't have his suspicions, either, and he won't stand for it one bit if he finds out you've been stealing!"

Frodo flinched at Bilbo's severe tone and widened his blue eyes innocently. "But Bilbo, it's not stealing, really! Farmer Maggot expects a certain amount of - _borrowing_ during the growing season. Besides, he's always going about giving food away to folks," he added.

If he had hoped to soften Bilbo's mood by this reasoning, Frodo was in for disappointment. Bilbo was on to the lad, and grew more alarmed each time he visited Buckland. The boy wanted discipline, nor did he show any indication of just good plain hobbit-raising, for that matter. The lad was running wild, eating the wrong things, staying out all hours of the night, and earning quite a reputation for a child of only 18 years.

To look at the younger Baggins, at least at first glance, one would say Frodo appeared much like any other hobbit his age. He was of average height, possessing sound teeth and a vast quantity of hair which badly needed cutting. He was less portly than most hobbit-children his age, but then again his frame wouldn't carry the weight as well as someone with a build like Bilbo's, for instance. Upon closer inspection, however, one could not help but notice a redness around the lad's eyes, and not enough rose in the boy's cheeks. Frodo sauntered when he walked, too, unlike the general bounce of most youngsters. Some folk took his gait for laziness and disinterest, but Bilbo knew better than that. The boy had a brain; it just needed exercising.

Not for the first time did Bilbo entertain the thought of taking Frodo into his own home. Not for the first time, either, did he chastise himself for being a damned daft fool who had no business meddling in the affairs of child-rearing, old crusty bachelor such as he was. Bilbo had gone home after his visit, leaving warnings and advice that he feared went in one of Frodo's rather dirty ears and out the other.

Frodo was thinking of Bilbo now, smiling at some of the tales the elder Baggins spun in the hours past his bedtime, stories that sparked his imagination and painted living pictures on the night's velvet canvas. He thought, too, of Bilbo's generosity, how he gave gifts freely even when it wasn't his birthday and was easy with his money, reputedly brought back from Smaug's lair many years before Frodo was born. _Good ol' Bilbo!_ he thought, fondly. How he missed him!

Glancing at the fragrant bag in his hands, Frodo decided he might just follow his cousin's example and share his booty with the other hobbit children after all. He was pushing himself to stand when a blow to the side of his head sent him sprawling. The bag of mushrooms flew out of his hand and landed a few feet away, spilling its contents on the ground.

"Caught ya, you little rogue! I've seen some nerve in my lifetime, and that's a fact, but you, laddy, top the hill!"

Frodo felt a large, strong hand grab him by the collar, jerking him to his feet and ripping his shirt in the process. Two hands grabbed him by the shoulders and whirled him around. He looked up into the brown, angry eyes of Farmer Maggot, and smiled weakly.

"Afternoon, Sir. Wh-what are you doing here?" he asked, a trick that often worked back in the busy warren where he lived. But the smile slid off his face quickly enough when he saw Maggot's unchanging glare.

"I'll afternoon you, you little thief. Thought you were putting it over on me, weren't you? Sneaking in at different times of the day and night, going to sundry fields and orchards – and now my mushroom barn!"

"But Mr. Maggot, I. . ."

"Don't you talk back to me, you scoundrel! I know you get away with things there in Buckland, folks feeling sorry for you and all, 'cause your parents are dead! But you won't. . ."

"Please leave my parents out of this," Frodo said quietly, his hands curling into fists.

"Well and good I will. They'd turn over in their graves if they saw what you've become—what you're fast becoming! Why, you'll wind up in Bree or worse places if you don't. . ."

"I said LEAVE MY PARENTS OUT OF THIS!" Frodo shouted, bringing his fists up. The gesture may have been disputed as either brave or foolish, but whether or no, it precipitated a reaction in the good-hearted farmer that he would rue long afterwards.

"Oh, you make to threaten me now, do you? Well, I'll show you just how much of a threat you really are, Master Baggins!" And without another word spoken between them, Frodo found himself on the ground and Maggot's leather belt whistling across his back and legs. Instinctively he knew that if he tried to run it would only make matters worse, so he curled up as small as he could and endured the beating without making a sound.

Maggot had gotten in several good blows before realizing the boy wasn't responding. When he whipped his own youngsters, they screamed and yelled and squirmed every which way. Two or three good whacks usually sufficed as punishment and before the sun went down all was right again with the world. But this boy never moved, never made so much as a squeak. _Rebellious prat! _he thought, and leveled several more heavy blows before his cooling temper told him he'd best stop. He put his belt back on, all the while watching Frodo, who never moved.

"Get on your feet. . ." Maggot grumbled, grabbing the boy by the shoulder.

Frodo was up in a thrice, pulling away from the farmer and standing well out of reach. He was breathing hard and his eyes were glittering with unshed tears, but his mouth was a thin line, his jaw clenched.

"Now we're going back to talk to Master Rory," Maggot announced, grabbing the half-empty bag and

whistling for his dogs, pushing Frodo ahead of him. "Get on with you, now, we've a step to go and the ferry to catch, as well."

The boy swallowed his alarm. "Uncle Rory?" He'd never been punished by Rorimac Brandybuck, but he'd heard about other whippings, and the tales weren't pleasant. He looked back at Maggot's dogs, who were following entirely too close on his heels, growling quietly. "Why are we going to see him?"

"You'll be working for me for the next week, is why, lad. To pay off some of your debt for all the

vegetables and fruits you've been stealing from me for the last few years! Now, young whelp, run

for it! And don't you be lettin' the ferry go without me!" And with that, Maggot set his dogs to chasing Frodo all the way back to the ferry, himself following at a more leisurely pace.

--

Frodo hitched a shoulder as he waited in the hall, listening for the sound of Maggot's and Rorimac's voices, trying to make out what was being said. His back still pained him something fierce, and his legs, too, but had lessened to a steady throb now and he found he could bear it pretty well. His self-image, however, was still smarting from the thrashing. No one had ever laid a hand on him before, though they had threatened to, and he blushed with the shame of it. Still, he'd deserved it, and there was no permanent harm done. Rorimac would send him off tomorrow to work in Maggot's fields for a week—that wouldn't be so bad, really. Mrs. Maggot's table held a high reputation for both the quality and ampleness of fare, and he knew that the farm hands ate with the family. His face brightened at the prospect.

The door opened suddenly and Maggot came out, his frown barely hiding a lurking smile. "I'll see you, young hobbit, at 5:00 sharp tomorrow morning. Bring some gloves with you, and a hat. You'll be helping me cut hay."

"Yes, Sir," Frodo answered.

"Mind you don't be late, or you'll get no breakfast," Maggot added, pointing his finger for emphasis.

"I won't."

The farmer nodded curtly and left. Frodo sighed and started to go down the hall toward the kitchen when Rorimac's deep voice echoed off the wall. "Frodo."

"Sir?"

"Come here."

The boy turned and walked back to the open door, looking into his guardian's office, a room that smelled of pipe-weed and ale, the walls darkened from decades of wood smoke. The head of the Brandybuck clan motioned for him to come in.

"Shut the door." Frodo obeyed, his apprehension spiraling.

Rory moved to the fireplace and leaned against the mantle, staring thoughtfully into the flames. "I'm very disappointed in you, young hobbit. Very disappointed indeed."

Frodo didn't know what to make of the gentle-hobbit's words. He'd had very little interaction with

Brandybuck after his parents had died and had no grasp of his personality or moods. He kept his mouth closed, looking at his feet, waiting to hear what else Rory might have to say.

"I should have taken care of things much earlier than now." Brandybuck seemed to be talking to himself rather than to the boy. "I've let things slip - Dro and Prim never deserved this."

Frodo's head came up at the mention of his parents. The firelight glinted in his eyes, darkened to grey in the half-light of the fire. Rory remained still, his thoughts obviously far away; after many long minutes, Frodo shifted his weight, and the motion brought the elder hobbit back to face the present problem.

"Frodo, now that Mr. Maggot has come to me, I have no recourse other than to apply the same

discipline my father awarded me in my growing up years. These were few and far between, but severe enough so that I remembered the smart of them for many a day, and their message for a lifetime. I do not take pleasure in this, but it is my responsibility, both to you and your poor parents, to see that you do not soon forget this lesson."

Frodo's eyes widened in dismay as the elder hobbit picked up a long, slender cane. Rory looked at Frodo, his face solemn. "You must not move about, Frodo, so that I do not bring the tip of the cane across your back. As long as the middle of the cane strikes you, it will cause pain, but will not wound. Buck up, now."

"What? But I alr-ready. . ." Frodo stammered. _Another beating?_

"Frodo," Rory cut him off, raising a warning hand. "No objections. You earned this punishment. You will endure it, and hopefully, you will learn from it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," the boy whispered, his voice unsteady.

"Turn around and put your hands on the wall there. I'll tell you when I'm beginning so you may be

ready."

Frodo couldn't believe how calm Brandybuck was, how quiet. Surely he wasn't really going to hit

him with that thing! What was he to do?

_Bear it_, said a voice inside his head. _You brought this on yourself, and now you're putting him _

_through it, too. Can't you see he doesn't want to do this?_

Frodo did indeed realize this business was distasteful to the other hobbit. But Rorimac considered it his duty. He would see it through. . .

As Frodo must see it through.

Turning to face the wall, his face hardened with the setting of his will and he braced himself.

"You will count to five, Frodo, one at a time." A long pause ensued where Frodo could hear his heart beating. "Begin."

"One," he said.

There was a brush of clothing in motion, followed by a swift whistle and smack.

His back exploded in pain.

--

Brandybuck attempted to talk to Frodo after he finished with the punishment. Frodo listened respectfully, but had nothing to say for himself. Finally Rory dismissed the boy, realizing that putting a few days distance between them might help. Frodo left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He walked through several hallways until he found a side door and let himself out, exiting into a twilit world. He let his feet take him where they would, following well-known paths that led up and away from the great smial, into a grove of trees lit with the tiny, silver flames of glow-flies.

Frodo's shocked body shivered, the fresh injuries sending spasms across the muscles of his back. He walked stiffly, head up and features set in stone, until he found a tree with a low-flung branch he knew very well. He stepped on a rock so as to hoist himself onto the bough, but the pain shooting through his back and limbs stopped him cold. He tried again and failed, tears blurring his vision. Disgraced, full of pain and trying to manifest a stoicism greater than his years, Frodo groaned in frustration and went down on his knees, suffering yet another onslaught of hurt as his calves met with his bruised and aching thighs. Pain like this was past the young hobbit's experience, yet there was no escaping it, no putting it aside. The only way out would be to fall unconscious or die, and Frodo's sturdy young body showed no signs of doing either. Instead it protested with smarts and twinges that plagued him from his shoulders to his knees; he felt sick, growing clammy by degrees, and his breath caught as he tried to slow his racing heart.

Finally, he gave up, and leaned over to retch on the leaf-covered ground. Little came up, as he'd had no supper that day. . .

Certainly no mushrooms.

Rorimac had wanted Frodo to remember this night, and to learn from it. There was no doubt the boy would remember, but as for learning, all Frodo knew for certain was that in the future he would try to avoid being whipped at all costs, and that tonight he would not be convinced to go back inside Brandy Hall for any amount of mushrooms.

Frodo lay himself down on his side, moving carefully and awkwardly to avoid further misery. He shed a few tears and shivered for awhile, but the demands of his exhausted and bruised body soon held sway, and he fell asleep under the moon-shadow of the trees.

--

The next morning began as painfully as the previous one had ended. Frodo woke with a jerk when the first raindrops fell on his face, and squinted through the pre-dawn gloom. It was early yet, probably around 4:30 or so. Only a few birds stirred, and the grove was still.

Frodo pushed himself to his feet, wincing. He straightened slowly and felt his shirt sticking to his back in places. Reaching up over his shoulder, he tugged carefully but quickly stopped, hissing in pain. Some of the stripes on his back must have oozed and dried during the night while he slept .

He walked back to the smial and let himself in quietly. Hurrying as fast as his aching legs would carry him, he grabbed a clean shirt from his room. He was soon out of the smial and making for Maggot's farm, stopping at a creek along the way just long enough to plunge in, wet his shirt to get it off easier, and scramble out again. When he approached the edge of Maggot's fields, he put on the clean shirt and headed toward the farmhouse, adjusting his braces on the way. A light rain began to fall as he neared the house.

--

That morning Frodo sat at the table, feeling small and ostracized by the others. In truth, no-one there held any hard feelings for the lad, let alone Maggot himself, but there was a certain sense of _'it's for his own good - he needs to know he's being punished' _in the room. Mrs. Maggot, however, couldn't stop herself from laying a hand on Frodo's tousled head as she passed by.

_The boy wants looking after_, she thought. _It'd be easy to spoil this one. _Obviously that's just what had happened, or he wouldn't be sitting here now, not touching his food, waiting to work off his theft-debt.

Frodo couldn't bring himself to eat much. He yet bore a great deal of discomfort and his stomach was still a bit off. He managed to drink some tea—at least it warmed him after coming in from the chill of the now fast-falling rain, and should give him some temporary energy.

Finally, the table looking rather empty, everyone—Maggots and hands alike—pushed their chairs back and carried their dishes to the scullery. Mrs. Maggot shooed them all outside, admonishing them to wipe their feet should they come back in or she'd have to scrub half the fields from her floors.

Frodo followed Farmer Maggot to a low outbuilding not far from the hen-house, a building he knew all too well.

"We'll not be cutting hay in the rain today, Master Baggins," Maggot explained as he opened the door. "Inside's best on such as day as this."

Frodo followed the farmer into the dark building. Nary a thread of daylight came in; the vertical boards of the walls had been battened by narrow strips to keep the light out. A strong, pungent, earthy smell drifted past Frodo's nostrils, and he couldn't help but smile at the irony of it.

They were in the mushroom barn.

--

All morning they worked. Frodo had no idea just how much labour it took to raise mushrooms, especially of this caliber. Maggot had placed shallow crates on low tables throughout the long building, each holding a gross or more of mushrooms, all in different states of maturity. Maggot started him at the end, where newly-sprouted mushrooms were just peeking their heads above the dirt. It was hard to see by the candles suspended over the crates, but more light would have damaged the crop. Frodo's keen eyesight soon adjusted, however, and he found he could see rather well after awhile.

There was fertilizing to be done. Mushrooms without proper size or shape had to be weeded out.

Moisture had to be checked and some crates had to be watered, using a wick system which threaded from the cistern-barrels mounted in the eaves of the building. Despite his weariness and discomfort, Frodo could not help but see the organization and plain hard industry it took to raise quality mushrooms. Maggot was easy and friendly with his instructions and, even though Frodo wasn't inclined to be amenable to a man who only yesterday had given him a thorough thrashing, he found himself warming to the round-faced farmer.

Late that morning, Maggot instructed Frodo to go up on the roof and check the gutters which fed rainfall into the barrels. They had used a good deal of water that morning and one of the barrels wasn't refilling as it should. Frodo went outside and mounted the ladder to the roof, not without some difficulty. He made short work of unstopping the errant gutter but was soaked to the skin when he returned to the building. The long, low room was fairly warm, but when they went outside again to get their mid-day meal, he was newly chilled.

Mrs. Maggot noticed his bedraggled state and sat him nearest the fireplace at the great table, heaping his plate high. The Maggots often skipped second breakfast and elevenses, grabbing a snack as needed to get them through the busy mornings. They made up for it at lunch-time, however, taking a full two hours and putting away a great deal of provender. Supper was served just before dark, bedtime following immediately after, thereby making the most of daylight. "A farmer's life is suspended between day-rise and sunset," Bilbo had said more than once. Frodo could see why. There was so much to do on a farm. The day was only half over and he was exhausted. He felt hot and sticky, his clothes steaming in the firelight.

"What's the matter?" jested one of the older Maggot boys. "You were keen enough on our mushrooms yesterday!" His siblings laughed with him at the light-hearted joke, but Frodo blushed to his ear-tips. He found he didn't have much appetite, especially for mushrooms. He wondered if, after yesterday and today, he'd ever be able to even look at another mushroom, let alone eat one.

"That's enough," Maggot admonished his brood when it appeared more jesting would follow. "You'd best eat, though, Frodo. There won't be anything else for quite awhile."

Frodo knew the elder hobbit was right; nightfall didn't come until 8:30 or later this time of year. He picked up his fork and speared a mushroom, trying to think of other things as he began to eat. He finished one plate, then obediently started on a second, full of bacon and other vegetables this time, which Mrs. Maggot had generously supplied him. There was no more jesting, as Maggot had insisted, but Frodo could feel the others' eyes upon him as he ate. One farmhand in particular stared at him mercilessly until he received an elbow in the ribs from Mrs. Maggot. Frodo shoved the food down, eating as much or more than he usually ate at mealtime. The meal didn't satisfy him today, though. He felt as if he were a pig trough, an uncomfortable feeling that didn't do much in the way of helping his queasiness.

Meal over, everyone lounged about, nibbling on bits and pieces, dozing in the firelight. Frodo nodded off as well, too warm next the fire but too tired and sore to move, until he felt someone lean against his arm. He opened his eyes and found himself almost nose-to-nose with the farmhand who had stared at him at the table. "Not gettin' mollycoddled today, are ye, Baggins?"

"Get off," Frodo said quietly, and edged away from the pock-marked hobbit.

"Knew ye'd take it that way," sneered the burly worker. "Think ye're too good for farm fare."

"I don't!" Frodo answered, his voice rising.

"Hah!" barked smirk-face. "Think ye're somethin' special, you and yer. . ."

"That's enough out of you, Delb," Maggot's curt command cut through the warm room like ice. "Leave the lad alone, now. He's of naught concern to you."

Delbo looked around at the rest of the household, who lent him no support, and left the house, throwing an ugly parting glance at Frodo before he shut the door, and none too softly.

"He's trouble, that one," muttered Mrs. Maggot, settling into her arm chair with a lap full of mending. "I told you to let him go last week, when you found him loungin' while he should have been milkin'."

"I'm short-handed, Mother," Maggot replied. "Delbo does a fair day's work if you keep a close eye on him." Maggot looked at Frodo and nodded toward the door. "You best go on out, lad. Find Erroc and ask him to put you to some task. We're finished with the mushrooms for today."

"Yes, Sir," Frodo replied. "Thanks for the dinner, Mistress Maggot," he added, remembering his manners.

"Oh, it's no bother, lad. Off with you, now," she replied, smiling. She stared at the closed door for a moment and said, "Husband, that boy's all wrong, or I'm no judge."

"He's fine," Maggot replied. "He's not used to hard work, is all. Give him a few days after he's stretched some muscle and eaten decent food - he'll come around."

Mrs. Maggot shook her head doubtfully, but didn't reply. Her husband knew his business, and she hers. She'd keep an eye on the boy, make sure he ate properly. Wouldn't do to send him back to Buckland less than hale and hearty. She lowered her head to her task, and was soon lost in her mending.

--

Frodo spent the rest of the day following Erroc, Maggot's foreman, and helping with various chores. The list seemed endless: sharpening tools; looking for roof leaks in the many outbuildings and putting on temporary patches until thatch could be replaced; threshing wheat, bringing in the cows. The younger hobbit was in and out of doors all afternoon, never really drying out, growing warm with his labours, and chilled again in the rain. He liked Erroc's company, though, entertained by his tall stories and mild boasting, and the afternoon went by quickly. At the end of the day Frodo helped with the milking. He was slow to get the hang of expressing milk properly, so the milkers set him to leading the cows into the stalls, exchanging full pails for empty, and putting fresh hay in the mangers for the cows to munch on. With such a large herd, he was kept hopping.

Frodo was surprised to hear the supper bell clanging and glanced out the open barn door to see that the sun was low on the horizon. The last cow was milked and last pail emptied, and the hobbits crowded to the house to wash.

Mrs. Maggot settled Frodo between her and Mr. Maggot for this meal, clearly discouraging any smart remarks from her family - or field hands. Frodo pointedly avoided eye contact with Delbo and tried to eat a little. But fatigue won out over any appetite he may have worked up, and he was getting colder by degrees as he sat there. The rain hadn't let up at all and he wanted to get home as soon as he could and into some dry clothes. He stood up quickly, drawing startled looks from the rest of the company.

"I—uh—I thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Maggot," he said, resorting to formality to hide his embarrassment in having to speak before so many people. "But I want to be home before it gets too dark."

"Me and the mistress thought you might like to just spend the night here, young Baggins," said Maggot, hospitably. "What's one more, eh?" he asked, winking at Mrs. Maggot.

"Oh—it's all right, really, Sir. I—have things to do at home. Back at 5:00 tomorrow, then?" Frodo hurried, sliding his chair under the table and walking to the door.

"Have it your way, lad. Yes, same time tomorrow. Frodo. . ."

"Yes, Sir," Frodo replied, standing with the door ajar.

"You put in a good day's work. You're doin' fine, and I'll be sure to tell Rory."

The boy broke into a grin and suddenly lost his voice. "Thanks," he replied hoarsely.

Then he was gone.

The meal went on, comfortable but brief, as it was time for bed soon after. Everyone went to their proper resting places and prepared for sleep. Everyone, that is, but one, who was not sleepy because he'd sneaked a nap that afternoon, and who wanted a little fun before he turned in. No one saw the shadowy figure that soon followed the fast-darkening path Frodo had pursued only a few minutes before.

--

Frodo slogged on as quickly as his aching limbs would carry him. He was half dead on his feet and was almost glad he was shivering with cold—it helped keep him awake. It wouldn't do to step off the path now it was getting so dark, and with the rain there was no moon or starlight to help guide him along the way. He was finding it progressively harder to see the trail and was soon stumbling over roots and stones which lay in his path. _At this rate, it'll be ten o'clock before I get home_, he drearily realized. That was the way of it; nothing to do but cross his arms for warmth and make his way home as quickly as could be managed.

Frodo was walking slowly, head down to better see the path, when he heard a hateful laugh just behind him. Turning quickly, he saw a figure standing in the lane, but couldn't make out the person's features. Still, he guessed who it was.

"Delb?" he queried.

"Del-_bo_ to you," was the surly reply.

"Are you going to Buckland?" asked young Baggins, at a loss.

"Na. Just wanted to finish what we started earlier."

Frodo bristled. He was tired, he was sore, and he was in no mood to listen to Delbo's prattle. He just wanted to go home, to go to bed. . .

"It wasn't anything, Delbo. Let's just leave it, shall we?" he offered, and turned to continue down the path.

"Wasn't anything?" said the husky hobbit, his tone changing from churlish play to anger. "It's because of you Maggot called me down today. I don't take kindly to that."

"Is it an apology you want?" Frodo asked, turning again to face Delbo. "Very well. I'm SORRY," he said, emphasizing each syllable. "Now can't we just forget. . ."

"I don't forget, Baggins!" yelled Delbo, and gave the smaller hobbit a tremendous shove. Taken off-guard, Frodo tripped over his own feet and landed hard on his back, striking his head a glancing blow off a rock. He was knocked silly for a minute or two, which probably saved him from further abuse at the hands of the farm-hand. Delbo bent over, making sure Frodo wasn't pretending, and nudged the boy in the side with his foot. When Frodo didn't move, the bully's cowardly nature presented itself and he ran back to Maggot's farm as fast as his legs could take him, leaving Frodo lying in the muddy path alone.

--

Frodo woke coughing, spitting out water and shaking violently. He didn't know how long he'd been knocked out, ached too much to care. He stood up, swaying, and put a hand to the back of his head, finding a great knot at the base of his skull. Getting his bearings, he set off again on the trail, new freshets of pain pouring across his back like the rain pelting his shrinking flesh. As he walked, the boy clenched his teeth against the cold and tried to put everything out of his mind except reaching home. _Home_, where there was a bed, a fire, and safety.

Nearly an hour later a bedraggled hobbit entered a side door at Buckland and staggered to his room, clutching the wall for support. Too exhausted except to pull off his soggy clothes, letting them lay where they fell, Frodo crawled into the soft bed and pulled the covers up over his head. The bed shook with his shivering for a little while, then he slept like a dead thing.

--

"Where is that boy?" Maggot asked for the third time, wiping his mouth on a napkin and pushing his plate away. "Here I was bragging on him yesterday and he's not shown up yet," the stocky farmer grumbled. At the end of the table, Delbo shot him a surreptitious glance, then quickly looked down at his plate again.

"He'll be here, Maggot," said his wife, passing a bowl of scrambled eggs to one of her sons. "I have faith in the boy, and you should, too."

No sooner had the words left her mouth than the door opened and Frodo stood there, wiping his feet. He sported a hat and jacket today, and a pair of gloves stuck half out of a breeches pocket. "Good morning, Mr. Maggot, Mistress Maggot," he greeted them. "Good morning," he added, smiling at the seated group.

This morning there was no standoffishness. All but one of the party greeted Frodo cheerfully, and Mrs. Maggot rose from her seat. "Sit here, Frodo," she offered. "There's enough left to keep body and soul on speakin' terms."

Frodo stepped back. "No, thank you, Mistress. I'm late as it is. I think I'll just check those mushrooms we talked about, Sir," he said, turning from the farm wife to the farmer. "They might be ready for harvest today," he finished.

Maggot grinned despite himself. _The boy learns quickly_, he thought. "You do that. I'll be along in a minute."

Frodo nodded and was gone.

"You watch after him today, Maggot," she admonished her husband. "He still looks peaked to me."

"You worry too much, Mother," Maggot cajoled, tweaking her ear. See you at nuncheon."

"Aye, that you will," she answered pertly, and turned to her work.


	2. Chapter 2

The fog disbursed quickly and the sun shone brightly on Maggot's fields. "Hay's too wet to cut yet, lad," Maggot explained as they exited the mushroom barn later that morning. "It must be cut in the morning so's to dry properly before raking. If it's damp at all, it'll mold - useless for anything if that happens."

Frodo nodded silently, intent on avoiding mud puddles as best he could. He found he was too stiff and sore to jump over them, and was soon muddied up to his knees. His jacket was stifling, but he feared to take it off, having found bloodstains on his sheets this morning when he woke. Maggot hadn't caused his wounds, and Frodo didn't want to risk the farmer seeing anything through his shirt.

Maggot soon set him a task of repairing hen boxes, leaving him with a good supply of lumber, a saw, nails, and a hammer. Frodo went at the work with a will, but his shoulders and back protested at the exertion. He was soon wet with sweat under his jacket, but at least he was in the shade of the poultry house and not out in the sweltering sun. Though it was late September, summers held on here in the Shire, sometimes well into October. He wiped his face with a sleeve and worked on, intent on his task.

He jumped, startled, when some time later Erroc rapped on the door jamb. "Oi! You hungry or not? Haven't you heard the dinner bell, then?"

"No, I haven't," Frodo replied, pushing himself upright. His back blazed as if it had been branded and the room rocked for a moment. He put out a hand to steady himself.

"You all right?" asked Erroc, concern written on his face.

"I'm—I'm fine. Really," Frodo reassured him. The dizziness had passed, though his back still burned. If only he could take off this infernal jacket! His stomach grumbled in hunger, though, and since he hadn't eaten anything since dinner yesterday, he was looking forward to Mrs. Maggot's victuals. "Let's go, I'm starving," he said heartily.

Erroc's face cleared and the two hobbits went to get something to eat.

--

Though the food was plentiful and fresh, Frodo hardly tasted what he shoveled in. He wasn't used to skipping a meal—any meal, and often indulged in snacking with some of the younger hobbits, snitching cookies and cakes from the cooling shelves whenever they wanted. This was the first time in all his life he'd ever gone a full day without eating, and all morning his stomach had ached and grumbled. The grumbling had stopped, but now there was a dead weight in his middle that increased with every swallow. He was halfway through the first serving when the weight turned to lead. He lay down his fork and took a deep breath.

"That's not all you'll be eating, Frodo!" remarked Mrs. Maggot, tsk-ing in disapproval. "Isn't it all right, then?"

"Oh no, it's fine!" he replied, not wanting to hurt her feelings. There was certainly nothing wrong with the food. . . "Just not very hungry."

Several eyebrows shot up at this last remark and Mrs. Maggot frowned. "Not natural, you a growing lad yet."

"Now, Mother, let the boy be! I reckon he'll eat when he's hungry," interposed Maggot. He shot a glance at Frodo. "I expect you'll make up for it tonight, won't you?"

"Oh, yes indeed!" Frodo answered, glad for the reprieve. He wanted nothing more than to get up and walk around a bit. "I'll just wait outside 'til it's time to go back to work."

"Stay in the shade, young Baggins. You'll be doing roof-work this afternoon," Maggot called after him. Frodo promised, and went outside.

Walking around helped; his stomach soon settled to a faint ache, and Frodo found some of the shade Maggot had recommended, and lay down to rest. There was a slight breeze; he opened his jacket and pillowed his head on a grassy tussock, enjoying the cooling effect of the wind. He was soon asleep.

--

"Ho! Get up, lazy-bones! You're wanted!"

It's a rude awakening, having a dirty great toe digging in your ribs and a pimply face uncomfortably close to your own. Delbo was enjoying himself, that was certain.

"They've been looking for you the last half hour, Baggins! And Maggot's none too happy!"

In truth, it had only been a minute or two since the farm labourers had come outside. Maggot had seen Frodo immediately, asleep in the verge, and had sent Delbo to wake him. Frodo had no way of knowing this, however, and scurried back to the hen house to finish the last of the repairs, the pimply hobbit staring after him until Erroc called him back to task.

Frodo went to work again, but was hindered by the heat and a lingering weariness. He decided to risk removing his jacket, turning himself so that if anyone came in the building, he would be facing his visitor. It grew darker in the small shed; Frodo thought a storm might be coming, but when he glanced outside, he saw only blue sky and high puffy clouds. Yet as he worked, his vision dimmed off and on. He rubbed his eyes and blinked hard, but the trouble persisted throughout the afternoon. He was glad Maggot had decided to let him continue to work on the little building's many repairs instead of putting him up on a hot roof—Frodo was sure if he had to climb up there today, he'd promptly fall off.

He finished the work in time to help with the milking again, though it was a strain to keep up. He was hot and cold by turns but dared not take off his jacket; his shirt was sticking to him in places and he knew this would show. Best to hold out a bit longer—he'd make excuses to leave before supper and take a dip in the stream on his way home.

Finally all chores were done and the workers headed for their late day meal, all but Frodo. He'd made a hasty excuse to Erroc, asking him to make his apologies to Mrs. Maggot and promising to be back all the earlier the next morning, as they would be cutting hay.

Frodo made it home without incident—Delbo otherwise engaged with his fork and knife—but decided not to go into the stream after all, as he was already cold. When he was safely in his room, he dampened his shirt as best he could with some water from the washstand and gingerly peeled it off. For the first time, he looked at his back in the mirror and gasped in dismay. There were bruises from Maggot's beating, but atop them were the marks of Brandybuck's thrashing, three of which were open and swollen an angry red. Frodo wet a cloth and applied compresses to his aching back as best he could until he grew too sleepy to continue. Now feeling hot, he lay face down on the coverlet and fell into a troubled and dream-filled sleep.

--

The next morning was a haze of misery for the young hobbit. He woke late and only made it to Maggot's farm in time to meet them in the haying field. The lad's hearty greeting and quick attention to work allayed any questions the farmer may have had, however, and he soon moved off with his own work in mind. Nonetheless, Frodo was far from hearty. His shoulders protested as he swung the long-handled sickle, the continuous motion opening afresh the stripes across his upper back and shoulders; Frodo was wet with sweat under his jacket and was bleeding again, judging by the stinging of his skin. Underneath it all a slow fire kindled in his breast. But there was nothing for it, so he pulled his hat down over his eyes, pressed his lips together, and laboured on.

--

It was a beautiful thing to see, the labourers working in staggered rows in the fields, cutting the green-golden hay with long, smooth strokes, almost like a dance. Mistress Maggot took a moment to watch from the small hill next the house after she hung up the last of her laundry. The hayfield was blowing in the wind, the smell of the cut hay was heavy in the hot, late-morning sun, and the workers moved up their assigned rows like dancers in a ballet.

Her eye fell on Frodo, who stood out plainly in his brown jacket. All the other hobbits wore thin shirts with rolled-up sleeves or no shirts at all, but Frodo labored in the sweltering heat in a dark broadcloth. The good mistress frowned, sensing once more that all was not right with the boy. But he was working ably, and kept up with the rest of the workers. Still, she would take a good hard look at him at the mid-day meal, she promised herself as she went back in to check on her roast and vegetables.

--

Though Frodo was unaware that he was being watched by the good farmer's wife, he was all too

conscious of Delbo's smirks and under-the-breath comments—all derogatory, he was sure. They had been set to work side-by-side and Delbo seemed to think it his duty to be one-up on everything Frodo did that morning. This constant chiding was wearing Frodo's patience thin; he wasn't physically able to get ahead of the larger and stronger hobbit, and his pride forbade him from falling behind. He was here to do a decent day's work for Maggot and that was what he intended to do. Still, he wished for nothing more than to be somewhere else—anywhere else—than where he was at that very moment.

Just when he thought he wouldn't be able to swing the sickle one more time, the farm bell rang out loud and clear. Reprieved, Frodo hung back a little to get some distance between him and Delbo. He leaned on the handle of his scythe, breathing rather heavily, too tired to wipe the moisture from his face. He lurched suddenly, as if the scythe had been jerked out from under him, and his muscles in his chest knotted. He managed to keep from falling, but just barely, and his vision grew dark again. Frodo lowered himself carefully to the ground and tried to get his breathing under control. But the smell of the cut grass was overpowering as he sat there, his stomach lurching uncomfortably. Slowly, he stood again. He found he was unable to swing the scythe over his shoulder, so he carried it back to the yard cradled in his arms. He cleaned the tool of grass, carefully drying it as Maggot had shown him, then looked over to the house, its front door open to receive the breeze.

If he didn't go in, someone would come looking for him, surely. The Maggots were good folk, no doubting it, and Mrs. Maggot had already been fretting over him. It would be cooler in the shaded house if he could manage a seat away from the fire, and he had a powerful thirst. This drew him to the homely kitchen more than anything, and he was soon seated among a boisterous, but friendly crowd. To his dismay, however, he had to sit in the only empty chair. . .

Next to Delbo.

"Where've ye been, Baggins?" exclaimed Delbo in false gaiety, and slapped Frodo on the back. It wasn't a particularly hard blow, but Frodo's world erupted into flame. He hunched over the table and gasped in pain before he could stop himself.

"Here, what's this?" asked Erroc.

Frodo glanced nervously around the table, feeling all eyes on him. "N-nothing," he managed, trying to get a grip on himself. "Sore muscles—took me by surprise, that's all." He smiled tremulously, blinking tears from his eyes and sitting up. "You don't know your own strength, Delb," he commented ironically, turning to look the pock-marked hobbit full in the face.

The stares rounded on Delbo then, and he blushed furiously. Maggot cleared his throat suggestively, and Delbo ducked his head, muttering something that sounded like "sorry" under his breath and commenced eating, keeping his eyes on his plate.

By this time Frodo had recovered sufficiently enough to begin eating, but the pain throbbing where Delbo had slapped him had taken away what little appetite he had. He gulped a full tankard of ale down like it was water, then tried once more to eat, as Mrs. Maggot was looking at him again. Conversation soon sprouted up around the table and Frodo was able to push his food around a bit; he hoped he had eaten enough to satisfy the housewife.

All too soon, the nuncheon was over and it was time to go back to the fields. Frodo's hopes that he would be given a spot away from Delbo were soon dashed, however, as everyone moved back to the places they had left before eating. Delbo said nothing, however, and went to his work without so much as a sideways glance. Surprised but pleased, Frodo prepared to go to work. But when he swung the scythe for the first time he felt as if he had been caned all over again, and had to bite his lip to stifle a cry. It was almost too much for the young hobbit to carry on with his work, but somehow he did—through the four hours of cutting hay, then the last hours of the day with cleaning up, chores, and milking. When the sun was once again low in the sky, Frodo was stumbling with weariness and felt as if his arms would fall off.

He knew he couldn't find a good reason to leave before supper this time, so he made a pretence of eating, slipping food to the dog under the table whenever he could, and managed to clear his plate. When Maggot urged him to load it up again, Frodo asked for water instead, swallowing it down so fast he spilled some of it on himself, and soon bid them all good night. Farmer Maggot got up and watched from the doorway as Frodo wended his way toward home. His wife joined him and together they watched the lad until he disappeared over a hill. The goodwife didn't say anything, but she didn't have to. She could see in her husband's eyes that he, too, was having second thoughts about the Baggins boy, and that he would be keeping a closer eye on him tomorrow.

--

Next morning Frodo arrived at the Maggot home promptly at 5:00 am, looking as if he had slept in his clothes. He spoke pleasantly to the group gathered at the table, but his usual cheerfulness was absent and he stared at his plate during the meal, hardly touching his food. The farmer glanced at his wife, who gestured for him to say something.

"Are you fit for work this morning, lad? You look a bit, erm. . ." He stopped when Frodo met his gaze, his blue eyes glittering in the lamplight.

"I'm all right, Sir. Didn't get much sleep, " the younger hobbit mumbled. "This coffee will wake me up," he added, his mouth pulling into a lackluster smile. Frodo made an attempt to eat some more, but soon gave up, once again resorting to feeding the more than willing dog under the board. Maggot saw this but said nothing until they rose from the table. He held Frodo back while the others exited.

"Son, I know you're not feeling well. Got too much sun yesterday, I'll warrant."

Frodo nodded, a grey haze settling over him. Maggot's voice sounded thin and far away; he had to strive to pay attention.

"I want you to work in the mushroom barn this morning, lad. It's been a couple of days and the crop wants looking after. You know what to do?"

"Aye," Frodo answered, slipping into the vernacular. The thought of the cooler atmosphere in the barn, away from the heat, was appealing. He would even be able to take off his jacket while he was there; the thought heartened him. "I'll be as fast as I can, Sir," he added, feeling he was getting special privileges and not pulling his weight as he ought.

"I know you will," Maggot encouraged him, and the two hobbits went to their respective work.

--

Frodo concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as he approached the mushroom barn. He felt so strange, so lightheaded! His body trembled with cold, though the day was warm and muggy, and there was an ever-tightening band was around his chest. No matter; it would probably rain before nightfall; Maggot and his helpers would be rushing to get the hay into shocks, but first the cut grass must be raked into windrows. It was a full day's work and now they were short a person because of Frodo's weakness. He would hurry as much as he could.

All the days of the week were blending in the young hobbit's thoughts—he was having difficulty discerning what work had been accomplished on what day, what nights he had stayed for supper and what nights he had gone home. Just last evening—he couldn't remember if he had even made it home—he had vague visions of sitting under a tree on the way, thinking to just rest for a minute, but that was all. His earliest memory of this day was walking on the path approaching Farmer Maggot's fields, listening to the waking birds in the bushes and trees, and realizing he was wearing a dirty shirt.

Memories or not, there was work to be done. He picked up his pace and was soon labouring in the gloom of the candle-lit building, but it took him all morning to finish the work. Four crates of mushrooms were ready for harvest; he must gently uproot them, first washing them of dirt and then carefully drying each one to prevent spotting. They had to be placed in special boxes containing removable shelves and lined with clean cloths to protect them during shipment. He worked steadily, though the aroma from the mushrooms, usually so tantalizing, made him nauseous. Frodo finally finished the work just before noon, and was purging malformed mushrooms from another crate when the door opened wide. The brightness of the day blinded Frodo for a moment, but the voice that boomed across the room identified the speaker soon enough.

"Oi! Frodo! Where be you?"

"I'm right here. Shut the door," Frodo said irritably. Just the sound of Delbo's voice was enough to make anyone testy.

"Bossy, ain't we?" Delbo answered, shutting the door behind him. He meandered through the rows of crates, sniffing the delectable mushrooms. Pausing by a crate of nearly ripe ones, he reached out a dirty finger.

"Don't touch them!" Frodo warned. "They bruise with handling," he added, putting down his trowel.

"I reckon Maggot won't miss one," Delbo replied, and plucked a mushroom, wiped it on his shirt, and popped it into his mouth. Frodo moved to place himself between the mushrooms and the older hobbit, staring up at him stubbornly. Delbo's face darkened. "I reckon you've had your share when he wasn't lookin' either," he spat. "Not eatin' at regular meals like the rest of us. I expect you've been helpin' yourself plenty, even after you were caught, you ruddy thief!"

Frodo's already flushed face bloomed a deeper red. Delbo had him as far as the thievery was concerned. He had acknowledged that fact days ago, no excuses. But he wasn't about to take any accusations that he was continuing to steal from the farmer. "You're wrong!" he exclaimed, pointing a shaking finger at Delbo. "I never touched a single one!"

"Oh yeah? Well I say you have, Baggins! I see that pile over there—planning on smuggling it home, skipping supper again? Hey?" Delbo punched his own finger into Frodo's chest for emphasis.

The young hobbit staggered back a step, rubbing his sternum. "You're daft, Delbo," he countered. "Those have been culled - they're to be given to the pigs."

"I'll give 'em to the pigs," muttered Delbo, his grin hateful. He grabbed Frodo by the front of his shirt and forced him backwards to the table with the culled mushrooms. Frodo struggled against his hold, but was too weak to make any headway. Delbo's grip switched to Frodo's curls and the teenager found his head forced back, his neck nearly breaking. Delbo made short work of shoving a large handful of dirty mushrooms into Frodo's mouth, covering it and his nose with a large, calloused hand. Deprived of air, Frodo had no choice but to swallow the grimy mass. When Delbo finally let him go, he fell to his knees, gasping and coughing.

The pimply hobbit laughed harshly and walked to the door. "I'd wash my face if I was you, Baggins," he called. "Don't want to give yourself away at nuncheon, do ye?"

Frodo was left in the darkness when the door closed. He used one of the stacked cloths to wipe his face and spat out what dirt he could, feeling more ill by the minute. Painfully he pulled on his jacket, wishing for nothing more than the chance to lay down in the shade somewhere. But he had to show himself at the day-meal. Slowly he left the barn, and made his way to the house. _Just one more day_, he reckoned. _If I can just get through one more day. . ._

--

The mistress of the house watched for Frodo through the open door. Delbo had been some minutes returned after being sent to fetch the youngster, and still Frodo had not come. She was about to say something to her husband when she saw the barn door open and young Baggins emerge. He saw her and hastened to the cottage door.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Mistress Maggot. I wanted to finish up so I could go out into the fields after the noon-meal with the others."

There was an ill-concealed snort from Delbo, stifled by a sharp warning and a slap to the back of the head by Erroc. Mrs. Maggot shot Pimple-Face a dirty look, then reached to put her palm to Frodo's flushed cheek. He pulled back, however, a strange look in his eyes. "I'm dirty, ma'am," he mumbled.

She smiled back at him tentatively, every maternal instinct she possessed screaming that something was wrong – very wrong. The lad was going on, however, as if nothing were the matter; she must respect that, as he wasn't her own flesh and blood. She patted his arm and went to fetch some food for him.

Frodo sat through the meal, unaware of the conversation around him, smiling when others smiled, looking interested when the rest talked, and avoiding Delbo altogether. The dog's belly was full when the meal was over—Frodo's stomach was twisting in his middle, the spoiled and dirt-laden mushrooms not sitting well. And when the farmer's wife set a large platter of bacon and mushrooms in front of him, he thought for a horrible moment that he might be sick onto his plate. He took his piece of pie outside with him on pretense of eating it under a shade tree, and lay down near the house, his pie untouched beside him. Immediately he fell asleep.

--

He woke only a few minutes later, his stomach cramping painfully, his head pounding. Frodo sat up quickly and hissed in pain, feeling something open along his left shoulder blade. His stomach lurched again and he was only able to turn over in time to avoid throwing up on his shirt, finally ridding himself of the spoiled mushrooms. Hastily he threw dirt and grass clippings over the mess and wiped his mouth on some fresh leaves. He went to the well to draw up some water and felt the ground rocking under his feet, his vision blurring, the heaviness hot in his chest. Sweat was pouring from his hair into his eyes and down his neck; his aching back smarted and burned, and his legs throbbed as if he'd been running all morning. He stretched out his hand to lower the bucket; it shook uncontrollably.

Slowly, he managed to raise the half-full bucket. He set it on the edge of the well-cover and picked up a tin cup attached to an iron ring, dipping it into the container. He washed out his mouth, then sipped the water carefully, not wanting to aggravate his stomach again, and poured the rest of it over his head, relishing it's coolness. As it dripped down his collar he began to shiver; he knew he must lie down again, if just for a few minutes. . .

There was a sound of several pairs of hobbit feet moving toward the door of the Maggot home; the workers began to emerge, adjusting their braces and putting on their hats. No time for rest, now. There was work in the fields to be done.

Maggot shot him a glance but said nothing. Delbo leered at him and shook his head in disgust, but walked on. Frodo drew a shaky breath and started after the group, most of whom had already moved ahead of him.

He took one step—two. _Come, Frodo_, he admonished himself. _It's just for the afternoon_. But his feet would not obey, and he felt so. . .

Maggot turned again to look at the lad, wondering if he should give Frodo some lighter work out of the sun. He saw young Baggins halt in mid-stride and put a hand to his head, knocking off his hat. The boy reached as if to grab something, collapsed to his knees, then fell face-first onto the ground.

Erroc reached him first, and turned him over gently. The other workers gathered round, murmuring among themselves; Maggot pushed his way through the ring of hobbits and knelt beside Erroc. Frodo lay unmoving, his face flushed. Maggot put a hand to his forehead.

"He's burning up," he said, shaking his head. "Get him out of the sun." Several pairs of willing hands helped move the young hobbit into the shade of a tree in the front yard. Frodo was limp in their grasp, and they could feel heat radiating through his clothes. Erroc sent a worker to fetch the mistress while Maggot sat the boy up, leaning the unresponsive hobbit against him while he worked to get off the sweat-soddened jacket.

"Thunder!" exclaimed Erroc, who was assisting Maggot from behind Frodo. "Look at his shirt!"

Maggot leaned over Frodo's shoulder and looked down at the bloody residue which had soaked the garment and whistled low, his brow furrowed with guilt. Had he caused this?

Mrs. Maggot came running from the house. When she got a good look at Frodo she covered her mouth with both hands, but quickly recovered. "Bring him inside, Husband," she ordered, and hurried back into the house. Frodo was lifted again, still unresponsive, and carried into the kitchen. Mrs. Maggot had spread a folded blanket for padding on the table, covered by a clean sheet. The hobbits placed young Baggins on his stomach where he lay insensible. The housewife made short work of Frodo's shirt, cutting it off him with her great shears. There were places where it had stuck to his skin; she had to use a wet cloth to ease the material away. Maggot shooed the rest of the hobbits out of the house, leaving their supervision to Erroc. Fortunately there were no longer any family youngsters underfoot, and the two older hobbits were left alone to take care of Frodo.

"Fetch me one of your night-shirts," Mrs. Maggot asked, not taking her eyes from her work. Maggot was glad for the reprieve, finding it hard not to show emotion after seeing the result of his belt and a heavy hand. When he returned to the kitchen, his wife had removed the lad's breeches. Though the boy was still clad in small clothes, through the thin material Maggot could see dark bruises on his lower back and thighs. Frodo's upper back and shoulders were a different story. While there were belt-sized bruises, the welts and open stripes he saw were different, caused by something narrow, like a switch or cane. Maggot counted five of them; three were open wounds, inflamed and oozing blood and fluid. The lad's skin was hot, his breathing shallow and fast.

Mrs. Maggot worked to clean the wounds, stopping only long enough to ask her husband to get someone to run fetch the doctor and Rorimac from Brandy Hall. The boy's lingering unconsciousness and high fever scared her. She was an experienced matron and would do what she could, but Frodo needed someone with more experience in these matters. After bathing and bandaging the lad's injuries and getting Maggot's shirt on him, they got Erroc and Delbo to help them move Frodo onto a bed in one of the front rooms. Again they lay him on his stomach, placing a light blanket over him, as he had begun to shiver.

Mrs. Maggot sat with the boy until she had to make supper. Rory Brandybuck, who had come as soon as he got news, took over when she left. Frodo's face and arms were bathed frequently, but he was growing steadily warmer. Young Baggins moved occasionally and murmured incoherently, but he neither opened his eyes nor responded to their calling his name. When at last the doctor came, having been delayed at a difficult birthing, his expression was grave. He stayed in the room with the teenager a long time; when he finally emerged, he was even graver.

"How long has the lad been this way?" he demanded, the good-natured man sounding gruffer than he meant to.

"He collapsed this afternoon, but he wasn't right this morning when he came to work," answered Maggot.

"Na, Husband, he's not been right since the first day he came to work, four days ago, didn't I tell you so?" said the mistress of the house.

"How's that, Mrs. Maggot?" inquired the doctor.

"Not eating properly, looking poorly, wearing that blasted jacket in the heat. Of course, now we know why. . ." she tapered off, looking questioningly at her husband.

"I gave the boy a hiding Sunday-last, Doctor," Maggot advised. "I used my belt and I admit I was too rough with him, but I'd bet one of my fields I didn't break the skin like that."

"Hm," pondered the doctor, scratching his head. "Well, I think he got a second beating, by the looks of it," he informed the couple. Rorimac made a sound somewhere between groaning and choking, and stood up from the chair where he'd been sitting.

"I did it," he whispered, turning pale. "I gave him a thrashing with my cane," he added, his eyes glittering. "He tried to tell me, he said. . ." He couldn't go on.

Surprisingly, the doctor's expression was one of enlightenment rather than reproof. "Neither of you could know the other had already punished the boy. I'm only sorry I couldn't have treated him sooner. . ." he trailed off.

"Why? What's wrong with him? Why hasn't he waked up?" Rory asked, alarmed.

"I will be honest with you, Master Brandybuck," the doctor began, taking the seat the housewife had offered him. They all sat down, leaning forward in anticipation of what the doctor was about to tell them. "Part of the problem is the infection in the welts on his back. Though not systemic, they must be looked after; I've applied an ointment, and now that he's out of that dirty shirt and lying still, they should heal without leaving permanent scars."

"You said 'part of the problem,' Doctor. What else ails the lad?" asked Maggot.

"He has pneumonia," the doctor answered simply.

"But I don't understand," Mrs. Maggot cried. "He's never coughed. I've watched him, he never

favored his chest or breathed funny until today."

"He's worked hard, too. He's pulled his weight and then some," added her husband.

"And therein lies the problem," answered the doctor. "Pneumonia's a funny thing; personally, I think there are different kinds—just my own experience with treating people bears that out. It can come on quickly or slowly. Some kinds clear up quickly, others linger. I've known some folks who have been walking around with it for weeks before they finally realize something isn't right and come to see me."

"Will he recover, Doctor?" Rory asked, having regained his composure.

"He's not good. His fever's on the rise and he's dehydrated—hasn't been drinking enough, I'll warrant. He threw up the last bit of water I gave him, too. We'll have to force him to drink, though, or he'll be dead before morning."

There was immediate silence in the room, as if everyone had stopped breathing.

"Forgive my bluntness," the doctor continued, "but you must see the necessity of giving young Baggins the utmost care. I've done everything I can medicinally, but you must see him through until morning. I have more visits to make tonight, but I'll be back by sunrise. Keep him sponged off, but don't expose him too much—I don't want him shivering, it'll only make his fever go up that much more. Give him trickles of water, a spoon at a time, constantly—and I do mean constantly. You'll have to take shifts—we can't afford for one of you to fall asleep and let him go untended. Can you do that?"

Everyone nodded, and the doctor left, sensing the boy would be in good hands until he returned. He found several of the farm hands waiting outside to inquire about the lad. A couple of them offered to help with the night watch; young Baggins had made some friends in the short time he'd been here. He sent them inside to talk to Maggot, knowing their help would be welcome.

While Maggot and the others worked out their schedule, Mrs. Maggot went back in with Frodo to keep first watch. He lay still, his cheek pillowed on one arm, sweat beading on his brow and cheeks. She wrung out a clean cloth and gently wiped away the moisture, shushing him when he moaned at the touch.

"Come now, lad, you're going to be all right soon. Don't you fret yourself."

Frodo's left arm, which dangled from his side nearly to the floor, moved a little. "Mum," he murmured.

"Shush. There, now. . ."

"Mum?" he said more plainly, his hand reaching. . .

Mrs. Maggot took the boy's hand in her own, smoothing it with her work-calloused fingers.

"Mum," he whispered, the words slurring, "I shouldna taken th' mush. . . shouldna take. . ."

"Don't you worry about any silly mushrooms, Frodo. Just you get well," soothed Mrs. Maggot, alternately stroking the back of his hand and his cheek.

Frodo's face puckered in a worried frown. "Don't let the dogs. . . th' dogs. . ." His hand tightened

around Mrs. Maggot's, the fingers hot. "Please. . ."

The good mistress was upset by the boy's words and at a loss as to how she could comfort him in his delirium. Throughout her watch she stroked his hair, sponged his face, and placed the spoon of precious water again and again to his lips. Just before her time was up, she put a clean, dry nightshirt on him and kissed him on the temple. She could feel his heartbeat, bounding and fast, and the heat radiating from his flushed skin.

Maggot met her at the door, carrying clean cloths and another night shirt. She looked at her husband with swimming eyes and sadly shook her head. Maggot placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. "I'll look after him, lass," he said. "Try to get some rest." She pressed her cheek to his hand and left him to his charge, but she doubted she would get much sleep that night—best to keep busy, instead. She poked at the embers in the large fireplace and put on a kettle. There would be need for plenty of tea before this night was over.

--

For more than an hour Maggot sat by the youngster, coaxing water past the cracked lips, sponging the overheated body. Frodo murmured and sang hoarse snatches from childhood nursery songs, smiling and frowning in turns in response to random, fever-induced memories. Maggot did not possess the maternal qualities of his wife, but he was filled with compassion for the boy and tended him as carefully as he would one of his own. He was leaning forward to wipe a trickle of water away from young Baggins' chin when the lad's eyes opened suddenly. He took a long look at the farmer, then pushed himself up and away from him, his blue eyes wide in fear. Maggot reached to try to calm him, but Frodo withdrew all the more, rising to his knees against the wall behind the bed, his arms braced against the panels as if to spring away at the first chance.

Wisely, Maggot leaned back and pushed his chair away from Frodo's bed, sitting quietly. Frodo looked at the farmer for a few seconds, his breathing ragged, then went suddenly limp, slumping back onto the bed. Cautiously, Maggot checked the boy; finding him unconscious again, he positioned him more comfortably. There was a new stain on the boy's nightshirt, but when the farmer pulled the bandage away to check, he saw that the wound was only oozing a bit and no new damage done.

The minutes passed slowly for the rest of Maggot's watch. The boy was terrified of him, at least for now, when his brain was stewing in its own heat. Though he knew Frodo wasn't in his right mind, it pained the good hobbit to know that the lad felt this way about him. _No sense worrying about that now_, he admonished himself. _You've enough to do to watch after the boy without adding anxiety to it_.

At last his time was up, and Rorimac came in to take his turn. Maggot was about to change Frodo's shirt, but Rory insisted on doing it. He stood looking at the youngster for a moment, an awful feeling of guilt and precognition prickling his scalp. Frodo may very well die, and it would most certainly be his fault. Not just for administering the caning, but for not listening to the boy—further, for not having taken a stronger hand with him after his parents had been killed. There was no excuse; a long set of circumstances had brought him to this moment, when he looked down upon this young Baggins who was clinging to life, but may leave it at any time.

But wait a minute—

Rorimac slapped himself on the forehead, cursing mildly. "Idiot!" he whispered, so as not to disturb Frodo. "Thrice-fool, and stupid to boot!" he added vehemently. Frodo was a Baggins! Old Bilbo—Frodo's crazy cousin whom they all loved, lived in Hobbiton. He must be fetched, and immediately!

Hastily Rory went to the door and called to Mrs. Maggot, who was awake and laying out the breakfast table several hours early, and asked her to send someone to bring back Bilbo as soon as may be possible. She agreed wholeheartedly and sought one of the volunteers to go. Two insisted, and she sent them on their way. With luck, they'd reach Bag End just after dawn.

With luck, Rory hoped, Bilbo would arrive while Frodo was still with them.

The boy groaned softly, and Brandybuck pulled his chair close again. He dipped the spoon into the glass of water and held it to Frodo's lips. As always, Frodo swallowed. As always, he had pulled one arm under his cheek for a pillow. But now, Rory noticed, Frodo's other hand had strayed to his chest, and he clutched the front of his nightshirt in his fingers.

Soon after, he began to cough.

--


	3. Chapter 3

Bilbo stretched, wakened by voices on the lane, and opened his mouth slightly to hear better. The sounds of galloping hooves and voices were growing nearer, their owners sounding excited and out of breath. He rose quickly and looked out his window and saw two hobbits he didn't recognize, dressed in field clothing and tying a pony and cart to his fence. One of them sported bright red hair, shining like copper in the morning sun. The other covered his locks with a battered blue hat. They opened his gate; Bilbo grabbed his dressing gown and hurried to the front door to meet them.

"Good morning, Sirs!" he called to them, swinging wide the round, green door. "You're up early!" His words, though polite, were laced with curiosity. "What can I do for you this fine day?"

"Are you Bilbo Baggins, Sir?" asked the red-head.

"I am indeed. And you who are you, if you don't mind my asking?"

"We're farm hands for old Farmer Maggot. I'm Dan and he's Tom," answered the hobbit wearing the hat.

"We've been sent to fetch you to th' house straight away!" said Tom, who looked as if he were ready to pick Bilbo up off his front stoop, robe and all.

"Come in, please," Bilbo invited them, really concerned now. "What's the matter?"

"It's your cousin, young Frodo Baggins, Sir. He's taken ill," Dan advised.

"Oh, my!" Bilbo mouthed, feeling as if he'd been deflated. "Oh, dear!" he exclaimed a little louder. "What's wrong with him?"

"Pew-monia, they say," said Tom.

"High fever—not knowin' anyone, as we understand it," advised Dan. "They told us t' hurry."

"I'll. . . I'll just be a minute. Please, do go in the kitchen and help yourselves to some food and drink while I dress," Bilbo invited them, and rushed to his room to change. He'd have to borrow Ham Gamgee's pony for the return trip, he reasoned. As he hurried, throwing clothes here and there and scrambling for his pocket handkerchief, the farm worker's words kept ringing in his head, over and over again. . .

_They told us t' hurry._

--

The trip back was painful for Bilbo. His backside was numb and his head ached from the jouncing and jostling of the old cart as Tom urged the pony on at a fast clip. But his heart caused him the most hurt, wondering how in the world Frodo had become ill so soon after his visit to Buckland. The farm hands filled him in with the details they knew, but they had no knowledge of the circumstances leading up to Frodo's detention at the Maggot farm except that he had been caught stealing mushrooms and was working off his debt. They told the elder Baggins that, as far as they knew, Frodo had not been injured in any way. They also expounded on how much everyone liked the boy.

"All 'cept Delbo," Dan mused. "Didn't take to Master Baggins at all, though I don't know why."

"What do you mean?" Bilbo asked sharply.

"Picked on him somethin' awful. Young Baggins never did him no harm, but Delbo picked on him anyway, teasin' him, makin' out like the lad thought he was better 'n us."

"But he wasn't that way a-tall, Sir!" exclaimed Tom. "Master Baggins is a fine young hobbit, and he worked with a will every day 'til he fell sick. Farmer Maggot forgave him the very first day he was there, I'll warrant!"

Bilbo smiled at the two hobbits, grateful for their friendliness toward his younger cousin. "I'm glad

he had you for company while he worked off his indebtedness," he said, making them blush.

They rode silently for the rest of the way, having to rest Gamgee's pony twice. It was mid-afternoon when they arrived in Farmer Maggot's yard. Maggot was waiting in the doorway, chewing on an unlit pipe, his bushy eyebrows pulled down in a dark frown. Rorimac Brandybuck waited in the shadow of the door just behind him.

The million questions that had been going around in Bilbo's head fled when he saw their faces. He jumped down from the cart and ran to Maggot, who moved aside. "He's been calling for you," he said.

--

Mrs. Maggot met Bilbo at the bedroom door, her comely countenance furrowed with worry and fatigue. Another hobbit whom Bilbo recognized as the local doctor was closing up his bag, moving slowly and looking as though he'd been up all night.

"Doctor," whispered Mistress Maggot. "This is the boy's cousin, Mr. Bilbo Baggins, from Hobbiton." Bilbo went in and she closed the door behind her as she exited.

"I'm Overhill, Mr. Baggins. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances," said the good doctor, extending his hand.

"And I," replied Bilbo, taking his hand briefly, then turning toward the younger Baggins. His face fell in dismay as he knelt in front of the boy's bed. "Oh, Frodo," he breathed in anguish.

Frodo, whose face was flushed with fever, was lying on his side. There were dark circles under his eyes and his body was trembling. His breathing, shallow and ragged, was interspersed with tight, pained coughing. He moved restlessly, tangling himself in the bedclothes.

"Poor lad!" Bilbo breathed, sitting in the chair near the bed and rearranging the covers. He placed his hand against Frodo's cheek and temple and was alarmed at the febrile warmth there. He ran his fingers gently through the boy's tousled curls. "Frodo," he called quietly, taking a cool cloth Overhill offered him and wiping the young hobbit's face and neck. "Frodo, can you hear me?"

His younger cousin frowned and his breathing hitched, as if he were waiting for something. Bilbo tried again.

"Frodo, try to open your eyes. It's me, dear. It's your Bilbo. I've come to see you."

The frown deepened, and Bilbo could see Frodo's eyes moving under the lids.

"Come now, this is no way to greet your favorite cousin, is it?" questioned Bilbo, trying to keep his tone light. "You can't sleep during my visit, lad. I just won't have it!"

Frodo struggled to open his eyes.

"That's right. Rouse yourself, now."

"Bilbo?"

"Yes. Yes indeed!" Bilbo answered, scrunching in his chair so as to reach Frodo's eye-level.

"You came," Frodo managed, his voice raspy and hoarse. "I dreamed abo. . ." A protracted attack of coughing racked his body, leaving him breathless and grimacing hard against the burning weight in his chest.

Bilbo had grabbed the boy's hand during the coughing spell and still held it, more than upset by the youngster's condition.

Frodo smiled at his cousin. "I'm glad. . ." He took a breath. "...you're here."

Bilbo felt a weak pressure on his hand and squeezed back, noticing for the first time how tapering Frodo's fingers had become. His eyes darted to Frodo's face again, observing the hollow cheeks. Frodo was losing weight—no doubt some of it due to the heavy work he'd been doing during the week—but most of it, he feared, was due to the boy's illness.

"Dr. Overhill, I'm told Frodo has pneumonia," he queried, looking up at the doctor who stood nearby, bag in hand.

"I'm afraid he does, Mr. Baggins. A nasty case, too. I'd say he's had it for several days, and he's been out working in all kinds of weather, which hasn't helped. It's got a pretty good hold—his lungs are full of fluid."

"He can't cough it up, then?" Bilbo asked, his thumb stroking the back of Frodo's hand.

"He needs to, but he's weak, and what coughing he produces is ineffective. I've treated him with

everything I've known to work, but so far there's been no improvement. His fever's dangerously high, poor fellow." Overhill looked down at Frodo, his tired features warm with concern for the lad.

"Have you considered applying a poultice?" Bilbo was remembering a time when his grandmother had fallen ill with a lung ailment and the doctor had applied such a poultice to her chest to help clear the congestion.

"It often works, Mr. Baggins, I'll admit," replied the doctor, "but it's also dangerous. It causes a great strain on the heart, you see."

"But if he doesn't get the fluid out of his lungs soon, he'll die, won't he?" Bilbo finally asked the question he dreaded most.

"Yes," Overhill answered bluntly. He was too tired to couch bad news in platitudes.

"I'm no doctor, admittedly," Bilbo pondered aloud, "but it seems to me that if Frodo continues to weaken, his prospects are poor either way. If we were to apply the poultice now, at least he would stand a better chance than if we waited."

Overhill stood for a full minute, thrumming his fingers against his thigh. "I suppose I could. . ." he mused. He thought a few more seconds, then made up his mind. "I'll give instructions on how to make the poultice to Mrs. Maggot. You'll have to help her apply it once it's ready." He looked hard at Bilbo, sizing him up. "It won't be pleasant, you understand."

"I know what it does, Dr. Overhill. I've seen it work," he said, reassuringly. "We'll take good care of Frodo."

"Very well, then. I have other patients to see this afternoon, and then I need to lie down so's not to fall down later." He grinned tiredly at the older hobbit. "Oh, now he's awake, you can prop him up—it'll help him breathe a bit easier."

"Bless you, Sir," Bilbo said gratefully, shaking the doctor's hand with both of his. "You'll be back later?"

"After nightfall, if all goes well. We should know by then. . ." Overhill didn't finish the sentence, but Bilbo knew what he meant.

He was standing in the middle of the bedroom floor, listening to the doctor give instructions to the

mistress of the house, oblivious of his fisted hands and clenched jaw.

"Bilbo?" came Frodo's weak voice from behind him.

"Yes, Frodo?" Bilbo hurried back to his cousin's bedside and sat down, taking the hot hand into his own again.

"I think. . ." young Baggins whispered, his fever-glazed eyes unblinking. "I think maybe. . .I'll die."

"Nonsense! Don't talk like that! We're going to take good care of you—you'll be fine in no time—you'll. . ." Bilbo stopped, realizing he was babbling in fright.

Frodo was shaking his head slowly, and struggled to sit up. "Promise. . . "

"What, dear?" Bilbo gently eased Frodo back down, straightening the covers once more.

"Bury me. . ." Frodo's breathing became more agitated. "Parents. . ." He struggled to say more, but collapsed into another fit of coughing.

Bilbo's eyes filled with tears, but he hastily wiped them away while Frodo weathered the coughing episode. Taking up the wet cloth again, he washed Frodo's face and hands, then set about trying to make his cousin more comfortable. Bilbo looked around the room, spied two pillows on a chair and brought them over to Frodo's bed.

"Let's get you up, Frodo. Hold on to me," he encouraged. He was forced to do most of the work, as Frodo had very little strength. Finally he managed to get the boy in a sitting position, leaning him heavily on his shoulder, and placed the pillows carefully. He put an arm behind Frodo's shoulders to lever him down and was surprised when the youngster cried out in obvious pain.

"What is it? What's the matter?" he asked anxiously.

"Nothing," Frodo lied, not wanting to concern his cousin Bilbo any more than he already was. The pillows were helping his breathing, and the stinging in his back was settling down. "I'm fine."

Bilbo made a sound of humor-laced derision. "Oh yes, and I'm Gandalf the Grey!" he remarked playfully. He was growing quite alarmed at the feelings he was having for this child just now and felt he must try to circumvent them as best he could. In the meantime, he must prepare Frodo for the poultices and their hoped-for effect.

But when he thought about what might come after, Bilbo shut his mind on it. It would not do to think too far ahead, to what the morrow might bring.

--

Frodo lay in a stupor, half aware of movement around him—noises and smells—but his brain couldn't identify them. He knew he was being handled; there was moisture on his lips and tongue, and something cool applied to his face again and again.

_Is Bilbo here_? he wondered. He thought he'd seen his face, heard his voice, but maybe that was just a dream. He'd thought he saw his parents, too. . . But no, they'd disappeared under the water long ago. The cold, dark water. . .

He groaned, feeling his body slide under the surface of the lake, the cool liquid slipping over him like oil. Frodo could swim, but he had never cared to go out too deep, and now he was sinking further down, watching all the while the sunlight filtering greenly through the water. He wanted to breathe, but the lake pressed in on him more and more. . .

"Frodo! FRODO!" Bilbo called, shaking the teenager. The older hobbit had been looking right at Frodo when he gasped and went limp, not breathing. Bilbo placed his ear over Frodo's sternum and listened frantically. There was a heartbeat, but it was labouring. Thinking quickly, Bilbo got Maggot to help him pull the youngster into a sitting position. Bilbo knelt on the bed behind him and wrapped his arms under Frodo's, his hands on his cousin's chest, just below the ribcage. He pulled in as hard as he could and was rewarded with a faint exhale. He relaxed his arms and waited. Frodo didn't move. Bilbo thought harder, his mind racing. "Smelling salts!" he yelled, and Maggot scrambled to see if they had any. Meanwhile Bilbo had turned Frodo's body toward him, draping him over his knees so that the boy's head was thrown back. The motion, though not intended, opened Frodo's air passage and contracted his diaphragm, pulling air into his lungs. Bilbo observed this, and raised Frodo up a little, straightening his back. Frodo exhaled a little air. Maggot was coming, clattering through the kitchen, but Bilbo didn't wait for him. He lay Frodo down again, the boy's back arching over Bilbo's knees, the head lolling back. Once again, Frodo took in a little air—Bilbo could hear it go in. Bilbo raised him to a sitting position again. Maggot came into the room with a small vial in his hands.

"Put that under his nose when I lay him down, Maggot," he ordered, and allowed Frodo to fall over his knees again. Maggot complied immediately and Frodo gasped for air, then fell to coughing. Bilbo held him on his lap until the coughing subsided and Frodo finally opened his eyes. He smiled weakly.

"Too big," he breathed.

"What? Oh, now, I don't know," Bilbo soothed. "It's not like you're a great tweenager yet, now is it?"

Frodo shook his head, resting against Bilbo's shoulder and finding comfort in the arms of the elder Baggins. Maggot, breathing a sigh of relief, left the room quietly, the vision of Bilbo Baggins holding Frodo etched firmly upon his gentle heart.

Bilbo's thoughts were miles away as he continued to hold the boy, distant memories of his own childhood playing across his mind's eye. Frodo had relaxed into his embrace, his eyes closed, on the edge of sleep – more comfortable than he had been in many a day. They remained that way for quite a while, until Mistress Maggot's voice came from the kitchen.

"Husband, this first batch is ready. I'll need you to help me get the pot off the fire."

Maggot soon came back in, followed by his wife. He was bearing a small table, a stack of folded cloths, and an iron pot on a trivet. Mrs. Maggot placed a ladle beside the pot, along with a small dish. The pot was covered, but heavy steam was rolling from under it in billows. Maggot went back out to fetch another chair while the Mistress busied herself over the table.

Frodo's eyes were still closed, but his nose wrinkled at the pungent odor that vapoured around the room. "W-what's tha'?" he asked, peeking first at Bilbo, then at the new table and its contents.

"It's a poultice, dear," Mrs. Maggot answered. "It's to get that awful stuff out of your lungs so you can breathe better."

Frodo nodded. "Smells like onions."

"That it is, young Baggins," answered Maggot, coming back into the room. "Fresh from my mistress' garden. And mustard. You'll be right as rain soon enough."

Frodo started as Maggot entered, and Bilbo could feel a tremor pass through the boy's body.

Together Maggot and Bilbo arranged Frodo on the bed, still propped up. They opened the front of his nightshirt and prepared the first poultice. Mrs. Maggot had wrapped the hot onions and mustard in several layers of cloths, but the poultice was still hot to the touch. She lay it carefully on the youngster's chest.

At first Frodo lay quietly, but as the heat of the contents spread through the cloth and onto his skin, he grew restless. Several times he reached for the poultice, stopped only by Bilbo's gentle hands.

All too soon, the first poultice grew cooler. Mrs. Maggot made up a new one, then took the old one from Bilbo's hands as he transferred the new poultice to Frodo's chest.

Frodo turned his head up and away at this one, reacting more strongly to the odour just under his nose. It felt as though he were gushing water from every pore in his body—his cousin was wiping him down with a dry towel frequently, but they kept the covers on him. He wished they wouldn't. He was so hot!

"Take't off," he groaned. "Off!"

"I'm sorry, lad, but it must stay on. Let me give you a bit of water," Bilbo said, and spooned a few drops into the teenager's mouth.

Mrs. Maggot had left the room to look at the next pot of bubbling onions and mustard. Maggot had followed, leaving the door open in case Bilbo needed them. Again, Bilbo prepared a new poultice and put it on the younger hobbit. Frodo cried out this time and grabbed the poultice before Bilbo could stop him, spilling the contents on himself and the bed. Bilbo raked the steaming mess off his cousin as quickly as he could, but places on the boy's hands and chest were already showing an angry red. Throwing a blanket over Frodo, Bilbo hastened to make another poultice. He pulled back the blanket and scowled at the tender red skin, now dotted with blisters. Resolve set his features; disregarding his own blistered fingers, Bilbo lay the poultice on the youngster's chest and grabbed his hands before he could react.

But Frodo neither yelled nor reached for the poultice. He closed his eyes tightly and turned his head to the side, away from Bilbo and toward the wall. Bilbo realized with dismay that his young cousin was trying not to cry.

This was almost more than the elder Baggins could take.

"Frodo," he called, grabbing a cool, wet cloth and placing it on the side of Frodo's face. "Please don't, my dear boy," he soothed, shifting from his chair to the side of the bed and putting his hands on Frodo's arms. His own brown eyes prickled with tears. "It's going to be fine, dear, well and truly. I won't leave you until all of this business is put behind us."

He continued to shush and soothe the lad until he grew still. Frodo reached up to wipe his eyes and turned his head back to his cousin. He was grateful no one else was in the room—until now, no one had seen him weep since the day his parents had drowned. Strangely, he didn't mind as much with his cousin. "Sorry," he muttered, scrubbing at his nose.

"Here, lad," Bilbo said, offering a handkerchief. Frodo blew and felt better.

But the poultice was getting cold again. Bilbo stood to prepare a new one, moving to the other side of the table as Mrs. Maggot brought in a fresh pot, the lid jumping with the heat trapped inside.

Bilbo held the steaming poultice in his hands, just having handed off the cool one to Mrs. Maggot. He looked deep into Frodo's blue eyes. "Are you ready, then?" he asked.

Frodo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Yes," he said.

--

The hours crawled by. Vaguely Bilbo was aware that Mrs. Maggot had gone out to the kitchen to prepare a hasty meal of cold sandwiches and buttermilk for the farm hands, but no one complained—not even Delbo. The sun had made its way slowly across the sky, marking an **X** through a windowpane onto the floor. Again and again the poultices were applied to Frodo's chest. Again and again water was trickled down the boy's throat, cool cloths applied to his face. Frodo's nightshirt and sheets were soaked with sweat, but there was no time to change them. They piled the blankets on instead, following Overhill's instructions, to prevent a chill.

During it all, Frodo bore it as well as he could, trying not to cry out, resisting the urge to pull the burning compresses from his body. But he drifted in and out of consciousness so much he often didn't know where he was, or what was happening to him. He asked Bilbo the same questions over and over. Patiently and gently, Bilbo answered him every time. Even now, as sick as he was, Frodo sensed the great affection the elder Baggins had for him.

Bilbo reached for the cooling poultice, but was stopped by Frodo's hand. The teenager brought his other hand up and reached for Bilbo's face—Bilbo leaned forward so that his cousin could touch him. "What is it, lad?"

Frodo tried to speak, but coughed. It rattled in his chest alarmingly. "Want you—t'know. . ." he breathed, and coughed again, a deep, vibrating cough that shook his body.

"Don't try to talk, dear. I think the poultice is starting to work," Bilbo cautioned, motioning to Mrs. Maggot and her husband.

"But I have. . . to. . ."

Frodo never finished his sentence. He was seized with great, gasping, horrible coughs that tore through his chest without stopping. He could hardly draw breath for coughing. Bilbo and Farmer Maggot shifted him to the side of the bed, his legs dangling over the side, and Mrs. Maggot placed a great bowl between his feet on a low stool. He coughed, and he coughed. Stars were racing before his eyes in a black vacuum and his ears rang, his lungs starving for air. At last, just when he thought he couldn't bear it a second more, something broke loose in his chest and he was soon spitting up quantities of bloody phlegm. He continued to cough, bringing up more and more of the stuff. Somehow he was able to draw breath around it, because he kept coughing until he thought he might bring up his lungs next. Toward the end he was so weak he was propped against Maggot and Bilbo, their arms holding him upright.

At long last it was over, and Frodo's head fell against Maggot as he went limp in a faint of the exhausted.

"Thank goodness that's over," said Maggot, his hands trembling. "What an awful thing!"

"It's not over yet, I'm afraid. There'll be more," Bilbo advised the farmer.

"Gracious, no! The poor lad!" Mistress Maggot exclaimed.

"It's really for the best, though," Bilbo replied. "We must start again with the poultices. But first, let's clean him up a bit."

By himself, Bilbo carried Frodo to a bench in the far corner, while Mrs. Maggot began to strip the bed and turn the mattress. There was a red stain on the back of Frodo's soiled nightshirt Bilbo hadn't noticed before, and when he pulled the garment over the head of the unconscious boy he saw for the first time the bruises and welts on his back. There had been three loose dressings on some of the worst injuries, but they had long since come off. Fortunately the wounds, though still open, didn't look too bad.

But how had this happened? Who had done this to his boy?

Bilbo looked searchingly at Maggot, who stood next to him holding the soiled shirt. Maggot seemed to know what Baggins was thinking, because he answered him as if he had voiced the questions aloud.

"Caught the lad stealing my mushrooms, so I punished him, Bilbo. I set my dogs on him, too, though they never touched him. Still, I think I was a bit too hard."

Bilbo's mouth had set in a hard, thin line, but he didn't speak.

"Worst of all," Maggot continued, "I didn't tell Rory Brandybuck I'd already thrashed the lad."

"Rory caned him, then," Bilbo finished, all too aware of the method of punishment in Brandy Hall for wayward boy-hobbits.

Maggot nodded mutely. They sponge-bathed Frodo quickly, covering him in a clean nightshirt, then moved him back to the freshly-made bed before speaking to each other again. Bilbo was experiencing so many emotions he wasn't sure he could sort them out properly before taking a good hard swing at both Maggot and Brandybuck.

But in the end, as he made ready to apply the first poultice, he realized that it was neither hobbit's fault, really. Not directly, anyway. Frodo was one of several youngsters over the years who, for lack of immediate kin, more or less raised themselves under the comforting roof and protection of Brandy Hall. Most of them turned out all right, but how different would things have been for them had their parents been there, he wondered.

He placed the poultice and Frodo stirred, waking up. Bilbo concentrated on the task at hand, pushing his thoughts back until they could be brought out again, at a better time and under better circumstances. . .

And so the process started all over again.

Twice more, over the next hour and half, Frodo coughed up the stuff that had been building in his lungs for days. The last spell left the boy trembling and moaning weakly. Bilbo could see the youngster's pulse fluttering in his throat—he feared that if Frodo had to go through this again, his heart may give out as the doctor had warned.

But something was different after this last spell. They got Frodo cleaned up again and back on two fluffy pillows that kept his upper body elevated. Frodo's breathing was easier and deeper. Though his face was still flushed with fever, the restlessness was gone.

Not daring to hope too much, Bilbo decided to wait a bit before starting the poultice regime again. A quarter of an hour later, Frodo breathed still more easily and appeared to be resting. Bilbo placed a cool cloth on his brow, then sat back in his chair, feeling such an ache in his bones as he had not felt in many a day. He closed his burning eyes briefly, just meaning to rest them for a minute. . .

--

Frodo opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Bilbo, sound asleep in the old, wooden chair. He had slipped forward and his head was resting on the bed, both arms pillowed under his cheek. He was snoring softly. Frodo smiled and stretched out his hand, not quite touching his cousin's face. His heart swelled with affection, and he whispered, "Dear Uncle."

Bilbo didn't move until a few minutes later, when there was commotion at the front door as Mrs. Maggot invited Dr. Overhill in. Bilbo sat up quickly, looking abashed at his having fallen asleep, and hurried to bring the visitors into the sickroom.

Everyone seemed to be talking at once, explaining what had happened during the day, what treatments had been given and their results, how Frodo had fared, and so on. Wakened by their voices, Frodo was too tired and feeble to try to sort it all out—as happy as he was to be through with the poultices, still he wished everyone would just leave so he could go back to sleep.

Rorimac, who had remained with Mrs. Maggot, helping her during the long hours of waiting, walked up to Bilbo and put his hand on his cousin's shoulder. "Bilbo, I'm sorry—for all of this."

Bilbo wasn't completely over his anger with the two hobbits who had beaten Frodo. "Best not to think about it now," he voiced quietly, wanting to hear what the doctor said. Rory nodded and turned his attention to the bed and its occupant.

Overhill sat down beside Frodo, placing a cool hand on the boy's face. He frowned, then lay his ear to young Baggins' chest, listening for the longest time until Frodo began to think he might have fallen asleep there. But finally he raised his head and smiled at the teenager. "We'll have to keep a close watch on you for a few more days, lad. You're still a bit feverish, and you need feeding up, but. . ." He looked around at the others, then back at Frodo. "You'll do," he said.

There was a collective sigh of relief from the vicinity of the bedroom door. Frodo looked up to see not only Mr. and Mrs. Maggot, but several farm hands shifting for position, all trying to get a look at him, and all wreathed in smiles. Brandybuck stood behind Bilbo, grinning widely and swiping at a tear or two.

Overhill allowed this for a minute, then shooed everyone out, leaving Bilbo and Frodo alone. It was remarkably quiet. Bilbo puttered a little, straightening the blanket, tucking in a sheet corner. He gave Frodo a sip of water from a tin cup, then sat down beside the boy again. There was suddenly a long silence between them.

Frodo tried to turn on his side and found it difficult, his eyes widening in alarm. Bilbo placed his hand on the boy's shoulder to soothe him.

"It's just the weakness, Frodo. You've gone through a great deal, you know. Rest is what you need, and nourishment."

Frodo tried to answer, but his throat and chest were raw and it hurt too much to speak. Bilbo brought the cup to the boy's lips again and watched in satisfaction as he drank. Then, as if that small effort had drained the last of the teenager's strength, Frodo's eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep.

Gently, so as not to wake him, Bilbo felt the lad's cheek and forehead, finding them too warm for his liking. Though Frodo was over the immediate crisis, it wouldn't do to assume he would just hop out of bed in the morning as if nothing had happened. The child's recovery would be a long one, and though the Maggots were generous and kind, it would be better if Frodo could be moved somewhere quieter and less hectic—Bilbo had noticed a fretfulness steal over the boy when everyone had crowded in the door to see him. Perhaps. . .

Well, there was time to ponder possibilities, Bilbo realized. No need to make a decision just yet. It would be several days before Frodo could be moved, days to watch him carefully and see to it he received the rest and victuals he needed. He placed a cloth on young Baggins' forehead and rested a hand on his chest. The heartbeat seemed normal, slowed by sleep. For now, the older hobbit was content to sit there, watching Frodo breathe in deep lungfuls of air. What was it he had heard Mistress Maggot say to her husband when she thought they were out of hearing? 'I told you he wanted looking-after, didn't I, husband?' she had said, to which the farmer had agreed.

Bilbo sighed, pushing back the still-damp curls from the boy's face. His hair needed washing, and a good clipping, too. "Indeed you do need looking-after, Frodo-lad," Bilbo whispered, his eyes shining. "Indeed you do."

--


	4. Chapter 4

The air whipped around Bilbo's body, chilling him to the bone. He looked over his shoulder at the sleeping form of his young cousin who lay on a mattress placed in the back of the cart, covered with several quilts, the top of his head and a hand the only parts of him showing. The elder hobbit turned back on the seat, scrunching into his jacket and wishing he had dressed warmer. Not that the morning hadn't started out well—sunny and cloudless. Frodo sat propped up in bed after finishing a modest but decent breakfast, and Bilbo decided to carry out the plans the two Baggins' had made the night before, plans which now seemed perhaps foolish.

It was October 1st, seven days since Frodo had survived the crisis of his illness, three days without fever, and two days since he began to show any interest in food. The boy was wasted and wan, and tired easily. Though he never saw the teenager complain, Bilbo knew the many inhabitants at Maggot's farm—well-meaning though they were—robbed the lad of rest. He had pondered the idea of taking Frodo home with him for several days, having broached the subject with Rory before he went back to Buckland. Brandybuck, in his own generous way (and with an eye perhaps to assuaging a bit of guilt) welcomed the idea of having Frodo spend some time in a quieter environment where he would be taken care of.

It hadn't escaped Bilbo's notice, either, that Frodo was shy and withdrawn in Maggot's presence, though young Baggins had always spoken politely to the farmer, expressing his gratefulness more than once. Maggot had talked openly about Frodo's hard work, his cheerfulness and willingness to do whatever was asked of him. The farmer spoke with pride and boasting when he related how quickly Frodo learned to work with the mushrooms, and Bilbo had no doubt that Maggot had shown nothing but kindness to his young cousin. Still, Frodo seemed uneasy in Maggot's company. Mistress Maggot had mentioned Frodo's fear of her husband's dogs and this set Bilbo to wondering if Frodo continued to dream about the day those dogs chased him to the ferry.

Bilbo sighed, and thought about hot toddies and blankets beside a comfortable fire at Bag End. What a turn the weather had taken! They were only an hour or two on the road when the sky turned grey and the wind chilly. Granted, October was an unruly month, but why it couldn't have waited another day until he had Frodo safely tucked up under the eaves in a spare bedroom, he could not fathom.

The older hobbit had stopped several times to check on Frodo, tucking in the blankets and comforters the good housewife had lent him. Each time Frodo had assured him that he was warm, and now he was asleep, which meant he was probably a lot more comfortable than Bilbo at the moment. The hobbit sighed again, pulled his collar up around his neck, and prepared himself to endure another hour of staring at the back-end of Ham Gamgee's pony.

--

The pony's owner straightened up from his task of pulling withered potato vines and squinted into the wind whipping against his face. A small cart was coming up the lane, its driver hunched miserably on the bench seat. He soon recognized the figure to be Bilbo Baggins, and hurried to meet him in the lane.

"It's a bad day to be traveling, Master Baggins," he commented, taking in Bilbo's bedraggled state. "I see ye've run into some rain on the way home."

"I did indeed, Mr. Gamgee, and I'm soaked to the skin." Bilbo scooted around on the seat to look down at the still-sleeping Frodo. "But I'm more concerned about my young charge, here," he finished.

Gamgee moved to the back of the cart for a look, but saw only a lump of blankets covered by a bit of canvas. He looked back at Bilbo, who was climbing stiffly out of the cart. "Ye look fair frozen, Master Baggins! The weather's changing fast now—I reckon we've seen the last of the fall harvest, and there'll be frost on the pumpkins in the mornin'."

"No arguing how cold it's gotten," agreed Bilbo, shivering. "That's why I need to get young Frodo here into Bag End with all expediency." Bilbo stretched an arm across the side of the cart and pulled back the canvas, exposing a curly head. "Frodo? Frodo, lad, we're home."

The head moved, then an arm appeared, pushing back the covers. "Already?" the boy asked, looking from Bilbo to Gamgee. "Hullo, Mr. Gamgee," he said, smiling at the gardener.

"Why, it's Frodo Baggins!" exclaimed Gamgee, breaking into his own smile. "Ye've grown, lad," he added, helping Bilbo pull off the remainder of the blankets.

"Have I?" the boy answered, his smile widening. He climbed to the back of the cart and swung his legs over. Only when Bilbo helped Frodo to stand, pulling the boy's arm around his neck and wrapping his arm around the lad's waist, did Gamgee realize Baggins' younger cousin was unwell. He moved to help, but Bilbo waved him off. "I think I can manage here," he said, moving slowly toward the house with his charge. "If you'll kindly get those things out of the back?"

"Aye, that I will," Hamfast replied. Will you be needing help with the lad?" he asked.

"For now, I don't think so," Bilbo said over his shoulder, moving carefully with Frodo, who leaned upon him heavily. "Could you store the cart in your barn until one of Maggot's folk come to fetch it? And if you would be so kind as to look in on us after breakfast tomorrow, I'll be obliged."

"I will, then," Hamfast promised, and busied himself gathering the few belongings Bilbo had taken with him on his travels. There was also another, smaller bag with the initials DB on it, no doubt the boy's things. The items were soon deposited in the front hall, and Gamgee went down the lane to his own house, where a warm stable and plenty of good hay awaited the tired pony.

--

Frodo woke to a grey pre-dawn and shivered. He put a hand out from under the covers and found the room to be cold and damp; he could see his breath, as well. The young hobbit pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at the fireplace. The fire was out, not an ember left.

_That's strange_, he thought. The few times Frodo had visited his cousin in the colder months, fires had burned merrily in the main hall, kitchen, and bedrooms. Most of the time Bilbo had tended the fires himself, asking Mr. Gamgee for help only when he had to be away for any length of time.

Frodo's arms began to shake beneath him and he lay back upon the pillow. He remained there only a minute, however, as morbid thoughts of Bilbo lying outside in the cold rain, injured, played across his unwilling but imaginative mind. Pushing off the covers, Frodo pulled himself to the edge of the bed. He grimaced with cold when his feet touched the flagstone floor, his knees aching with the unaccustomed exertion of bearing his own weight. He stood a moment, swaying, before he felt sure-footed enough to reach for the flannel robe Bilbo had given him. Even so, he had to hold onto the foot of the bed while he put it on, and kept a hand on some piece of furniture or woodwork as he made his way to the bedroom door.

Opening it, he stepped out into the dark hall, looking toward Bilbo's bedroom. The door was closed, which meant his cousin was probably still asleep. The older hobbit had sneezed alarmingly several times the evening before, and though he had changed quickly out of his wet clothing, Frodo had noticed it took some time for him to get warm beside the fire. He had insisted on waiting on his younger cousin despite Frodo's protests, propping up the youngster on a couch next the fire, fussing with the woolen throw, fixing him tea and insisting he eat a little something before he went to bed. Frodo had finally given in, realizing that the more he objected, the longer it would take for Bilbo to take care of himself. He had lain awake for some time, listening to his older cousin sneeze and cough in his own room down the hall.

_I hope he hasn't taken cold_, he wished, but half-heartedly, knowing full-well that was what had happened. _He's been worrying himself sick over me, tiring himself out, getting me settled here when he should have been changing out of those wet clothes_. He hesitated, looking at Bilbo's closed door and back toward the sitting room. He let out a breath, his face set determinedly, and walked toward the front of the smial, pulling his robe up around his neck.

--

Bilbo woke suddenly, emitting a loud sneeze into the chilly room.

He scrabbled for his pocket watch he had placed on the table the night before, rubbing his eyes. "Look at the time!" he said hoarsely, grabbing his robe. "Stickle-bats! The house is stone cold!" he fretted as he left the room and hurried up the hall. Bilbo glanced into Frodo's room through the open door and saw, to his dismay, that Frodo's bed was empty. "Thundering stickle-bats!" he exclaimed under his breath, and hastened to the sitting room.

The room was empty, but a cheerful, well-laid fire was burning merrily in the fireplace. Bilbo stood a second or two, transfixed, but flinched when he heard something break in the kitchen nearby. A muffled "Drat!" and other unidentifiable noises followed the sound of breakage. Bilbo peered around the kitchen door and saw Frodo on his hands and knees, picking up pieces of the teapot he had dropped. The hard floor had shown no mercy to the stoneware and what was once a pretty piece of pottery was now nothing more than shards on the flagstone.

"Frodo, you idiot!" the lad was chastising himself, not seeing his cousin at the door. "You've gone and broken Bilbo's lovely teapot!" he continued, breathing heavily as he worked. Frodo stopped abruptly and placed a hand to his ribs, grimacing.

"Here, lad, you must get up off the cold floor," Bilbo said, walking quickly into the room and kneeling in front of the boy. To his alarm, tears pooled in the lad's blue eyes and threatened to spill down his pale cheeks. "Now, now, what's this?" he asked, putting a hand on Frodo's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Bilbo," Frodo answered, dashing his tears away, a look of anger brushing his features. "I'll pay for it," he said determinedly. "I'll work for it," he continued, growing agitated. "I still have one more day to put in for Farmer Maggot, but I can come right back. . . "

Bilbo hushed him. "You've no reason to worry about a silly bit of crockery, my boy," he reasoned, helping Frodo to stand. "Bless you, you shouldn't even be out of bed, and here you are trying to make tea for us." Bilbo's brows pulled down in a frown. Frodo's face was flushed. "You'd best sit down," he said, and helped the younger hobbit into a chair.

Bilbo had barely begun to brew the tea when there was a knock at the side entrance to the smial. He hurried to the door and let in Mr. Gamgee, who took off his cloak and wiped his feet carefully before coming into the kitchen. Bilbo insisted he take a seat at the table and placed a cup of tea in front of him and Frodo, sitting down with his own cup and taking a sip before turning to the gardener. "I appreciate your coming up to see us on such a wet morning, Master Gamgee," Bilbo said, sniffling. "I'm afraid I've come down with a cold and we Bagginses could do with some help today." He grinned at Frodo, who smiled back but remained still, nursing a stitch in his side.

"I thought ye might be," nodded Hamfast knowledgeably, "seein' as how ye were so chilled when ye got home. Ye just rest easy; I'll take care of the fires and make sure the wood stack is handy to the door so ye won't have to go out into th' rain," he said reassuringly, nodding at the elder Baggins. His glance strayed to Frodo, who leaned his elbows on the table, his untouched tea sitting between them. "Will you be wanting a doctor to come take a look at the lad, Mr. Bilbo?" he asked. "I can fetch him this afternoon when I've finished here."

"I'd like that, Hamfast, if you'd see to it," replied Bilbo. "Just to make sure the trip here didn't set the boy back at all."

"Aye, and it wouldn't hurt to look at you, either, I'm thinking," was Gamgee's savvy reply.

Frodo started to protest the fetching of another doctor, feeling Bilbo had spent way too much time, energy, and funds taking care of him already, but he felt a knife-sharp pain in his side and had to clamp his jaw shut to keep from reacting. He felt hot and sticky, wanting suddenly to get away from the fire and find some cooler air to breathe. The teenager tried to stand but fell limply back into his chair, the stitch in his side causing an involuntary 'oof'.

"He's been up too long," Bilbo said. "Making up the fires for me when I slept in. Will you help me get him back to bed, Mr. Gamgee?"

The gardener got up from the table and assisted Bilbo in helping Frodo back to his room. Bilbo fetched a small towel and basin of water and sponged Frodo's face, neck and hands while Gamgee laid a fire. Bilbo went back into the sitting room only after he'd made sure Frodo was warm and asleep, and was soon snoring softly in the big armchair he favored. Neither hobbit much cared that the time for second breakfast was done and past.

--

Frodo stirred restlessly, coming out of a dark dream he couldn't remember. His breathing was shallow; every breath was painful. It felt as though someone was thrusting hot needles between his ribs; flashes of pain blistered across his chest each time he inhaled.

He couldn't lie there. Each gulp of air was more excruciating than the last, and he felt as though he must stop breathing to escape the pain, but that only made things worse as his involuntary systems demanded air and his lungs complied. Frodo tumbled out of bed onto his hands and knees, fighting to slow his breathing. He soon grew dizzy and weak, and slumped over on his side, curled up in misery.

Vaguely, he heard footsteps coming down the hall, then a soft tapping on his bedroom door.

"Master Frodo," came Gamgee's whispered words from the other side. "I've brought some wood for the fire."

_Oh, come in!_ Frodo mouthed. _Please come in!_ But he was unable to make a sound.

The door handle turned and Gamgee pushed the door open quietly so as not to disturb young Baggins. A moment later Frodo heard the firewood tumble to the floor and felt Gamgee's rough hands on his shoulder and head. Frodo still couldn't speak to the gardener—it was all he could do to breathe through the vise clamped around his ribs. Hamfast stood and bolted from the room, crying "Mr. Bilbo, Mr. Bilbo!"

And for a while after that, Frodo's world became mercifully black.

--

"Sir! Mr. Bilbo, wake up!" Bilbo woke with a snort, feeling himself hauled to his feet by the gardener's strong arms.

"What? What is it?" he managed as Gamgee dragged him down the hall.

"It's Frodo! He's bad, Mr. Bilbo!"

Bilbo broke away from Hamfast's grasp and dashed the last few feet to Frodo's room. The boy lay unmoving on the floor, one hand grasping the bedclothes that were half off the bed, the other clutched to his chest. He was moaning softly, but didn't appear to be conscious.

"Frodo!" Bilbo called, falling to his knees beside the youngster, half-lifting him. Frodo's head fell back against Bilbo's arm and his eyelids flickered. He moaned again.

"What is it?" Bilbo asked him. "What's the matter?" he called, getting a faint response this time. "Frodo!"

The boy's eyes opened, his face twisting with pain. "Bilbo," he gasped, wrapping his arms around himself. "Hurts so," he whispered.

Bilbo looked up at Gamgee, who was hovering among the spilled logs. "Please go get the doctor, Master Hamfast, as soon as you can!"

"Aye, I will!" The faithful gardener bolted from the room and Bilbo soon heard the round green door slam.

"C'mon, Frodo. Let's get you back to bed—not good for you to be lying on this cold floor."

Bilbo helped his cousin back into bed, the boy half-fainting. He stayed with him, holding his hand and muttering words of comfort until the gardener returned. Soon two sets of voices echoed down the hall. The doctor was with Gamgee, thank goodness! The two hobbits came into Frodo's room, and Bilbo moved aside so that the doctor could take a look at the teenager.

"What seems to be the problem?" the doctor asked, his manner professional. Frodo could not answer, his chest burning, claws ripping him with each breath. Tears slid from the boy's eyes, down his temples and into his hair. "Hurt to breathe?" the doctor asked, opening Frodo's nightshirt. Frodo nodded, and the doctor observed his breathing, putting two fingers to the youngster's neck. Watching the doctor work, Bilbo gave an account of everything that had happened to his young cousin over the last two weeks. As he spoke, Dr. Upland's eyes widened and grew softer.

Bilbo mistook the physician's look and grew alarmed. "He's, he's not. . ." he stammered.

"He's suffering overmuch, I'll agree," interrupted Upland. "But it's not life-threatening."

Bilbo thought the doctor's reassurances were a bit too hearty. "But it's not good for him to breathe so! He keeps fainting for lack of air!" Bilbo exclaimed, taking his turn to interrupt.

"That's due to the pain. It causes him to breathe irregularly and too fast, which weakens him. After what he's been through, first with the pneumonia and then the purging of the congestion in such a violent way, the linings around his lungs are inflamed – have actually separated and rub together when he breathes. They'll heal themselves eventually, but in the meantime he's most likely wishing he could stop breathing for awhile." He looked down at Frodo, who was shivering in a cold sweat. "Don't you, lad?"

Again Frodo nodded, too busy trying to breathe without screaming.

"Can you do anything for him, Dr. Upland?" Bilbo asked. Gamgee, standing in the background, nodded unconsciously.

"To be sure," Upland assured Bilbo. "A draught to make him sleep. Warm compresses and kingsfoil to soothe his breathing. We'll have him more comfortable in a thrice," he promised, and smiled at Frodo. "Mr. Gamgee, would you mind staying with this young gentle-hobbit while I talk to Mr. Baggins for a moment?"

"I'll watch after the lad," the gardener promised.

Upland motioned for Bilbo to follow him out of the room. The hobbits moved down the hall so that

Frodo could not hear their conversation, where the doctor stood a few seconds, chewing his lip.

"What is it you're not telling me, Doctor?" Bilbo asked.

"How old is the lad?" Upland countered.

"He's—well, let's see. . . He just turned nineteen on the 22nd of last month. We share birthdays," he added, realizing with a jolt that he had forgotten about that during Frodo's illness.

"He's young yet," mused the doctor, his thoughts far afield. "He should outgrow it," he murmured.

"Doctor, forgive my impatience, but what in middle-earth are you talking about? What's wrong with my cousin?"

"He has a heart murmur—a missed beat occasionally," Upland explained. "It could be nothing—he may have been born with it—or it could be a sign of damage to his heart during his illness."

"How can you know which it is?" Bilbo asked, his face tightening in misery. The poor lad had been through so much already.

"I can't. But we'll know soon enough. With care, young Frodo will gradually get better and recover his strength. If not. . ."

"He could die?"

The doctor lay a sympathetic hand on the older hobbit's shoulder. "Why don't we gather that acorn when it falls, eh, Mr. Baggins? Now, I'll just get some things together from my pony and be back shortly. Would you mind putting on a kettle for the kingsfoil, then?" he requested.

Bilbo complied quickly, glad to have something constructive to do, and laid out a simple tea as well, suddenly feeling very thirsty and not a little hungry. Frodo would get through this – he would see to it.

But. . .

Bilbo shook his head sorrowfully. He realized now how difficult parenting was, and what an awesome responsibility, too. He was getting too old to properly tend to a youngster—and one who tended to get into trouble, at that. He shook his head again and sniffed audibly. _Blasted cold! _No, there was no question, now—he knew what was best for the boy. No more daydreaming about what might be or could have been. Whatever thoughts he had nurtured of taking the lad in on a permanent basis were now thoroughly dashed, and as soon as the boy was sufficiently recovered, Bilbo would see to it that he was returned to Buckland. Frodo belonged with his mother's kin, not with some silly old bachelor who couldn't suitably take care of him. It was decided, then—to Buckland Frodo would go—and there in Buckland he would stay.

--

There was a strange scent in the air, cool yet aromatic, almost caressing in its essence. Frodo took a tentative breath; though still painful, it was manageable, and he was able to relax and let his body do the work without thinking too much about it.

"Feeling better?" came Bilbo's voice from nearby.

Frodo cracked one eye open and saw his cousin leaning over the fireplace, fiddling with an errant log.

"Yes, I— " Frodo's voice croaked, his throat raspy and sore. He tried again. "Yes, Uncle. Doesn't hurt nearly so much," he added. He coughed dryly, wishing he could have something to drink, and wishing especially that he didn't have to cough.

As if reading his mind, Bilbo turned away from the fire and fetched a tumbler of water, holding it to Frodo's lips. The teenager drank greedily, the cool liquid easing the discomfort in his throat.

Frodo thanked his cousin and tried to push himself up against the pillows, struggling a bit before Bilbo helped him. "How long have I been asleep?" he asked the older Baggins.

"Day and a half," Bilbo answered matter-of-factly, his eyes straying from Frodo's face and across the coverlet of the bed. The older hobbit flicked at a piece of lint. "I dare say you needed it, too." He pulled out a large pocket handkerchief and blew his nose.

"How is your cold?" Frodo asked. "Have you been to bed at all?" Young Baggins remembered all too well Bilbo's uninterrupted vigil at his bedside at the Maggots, and his attentiveness when they'd first arrived at Bag End.

"Oh, yes, yes," Bilbo reassured him, putting away his handkerchief and tugging on his waistcoat. "Master Hamfast has been taking good care of us both. Today his mistress has sent us bread and a thick soup, too. Are you hungry, by the way?" he said by way of changing the subject. Bilbo was having a hard time looking at his cousin, knowing that soon he would have to bundle the lad back to Buckland.

"Well. . . Yes, I am—a bit. . ." Frodo replied, the thought of food precipitating a low rumble from

somewhere inside him. "Soup sounds good," he added, hopefully, as another and louder rumble rattled around in his stomach.

"Back in a thrice. It's been warming on the stove all morning," Bilbo informed his younger cousin, and left the room hurriedly.

Frodo stretched, testing his ribs, and put his hands behind his head. An October sun cast its afternoon light through the windowpane, shedding dust motes in its broad, yellow beam. The tree outside the window threw dappled shadows across the bed and flagstone floor. A faint, clean, herbal smell still lingered in the air, and a clock ticked quietly against the far wall, mingling with the soft, sibilant sound of the fire. Frodo closed his eyes blissfully. It was so nice here—so quiet, so comforting. He wished. . .

The door creaked and Bilbo came into the room bearing a wooden tray laden with two steaming bowls, two cups and saucers, and a teapot. "Thought I'd make a little party of it, now that you're feeling better," Bilbo said, smiling.

A warm shower of affection for the old hobbit washed over the boy, and he felt hot tears pricking at the back of his eyes as he watched his cousin prepare the tea. He found himself desperately wanting to tell Bilbo what he was feeling, but his heart was so full he knew he'd never get the words out properly without making a blubbering fool of himself. He smiled at his older cousin instead, hoping that his eyes might reveal some of what he was thinking.

Bilbo caught his smile as he lay a napkin on Frodo's chest and grinned. Without another word between them, Bilbo took turns feeding himself—then his young charge—the good hot soup, supplemented with sips of tea. Frodo didn't eat much, but his sigh of contentment when he'd finished his tea satisfied the older hobbit.

"Now for a bit more rest, I believe," Bilbo said, taking away the napkin after Frodo had wiped his mouth. "I'll put the last of the kingsfoil into the kettle by the fire, too. It'll help you drop off."

"Kingsfoil?" Frodo asked, curiosity lighting his eyes, which were finally free of pain.

"An herb—some call it a weed, unfortunately, and it's almost been culled from The Shire. But old legends say it has healing powers, and good healers like Upland still use it on occasion."

Frodo vaguely remembered Doctor Upland and decided he would write a thank-you note to him the very next day. In fact. . . Frodo chewed his lip in thought. Writing down his thoughts about his cousin would be the perfect way to not only thank him for all his care and concern, but to tell Bilbo just how he felt—about how he was so much more than a cousin. Closer, somehow. . . maybe that was why he found himself calling him Uncle.

--

"What a glorious day!"

"Aye, that it is, Master Frodo, that it is!"

Frodo sat against the front of the smial, well-wrapped, his chair tipped back. A light breeze ruffled his dark curls, but the sun was warm on his face and an excellent lunch lay comfortably in his belly. He smiled at the gardener who was just opening the gate to Bilbo's yard, a sandy-haired toddler clinging to his hand.

"Who's your friend?" Frodo asked, squinting in the bright light to better see the little one's face.

"Youngest boy in my family. Thought I'd take him along with me, give him a bit of exercise before the weather turns cold for good 'n all. He's been a mite sick; I've been that worried about him," Gamgee explained. "I'll see he won't bother you whilst I'm oilin' the garden tools."

The elder hobbit had clapped a practiced hand on his son's head as if to root him to the spot, but Frodo brought his chair down to all four legs and stuck out an arm from under his blankets. "He won't be a bother to me," Frodo replied. "Uncle Bilbo's on an errand and I'm starving for company." He looked at Hamfast hopefully. "Will you leave him with me? If it gets cold, we'll go inside by the fire."

The gaffer thought about Frodo's generous request, weighing the bother of knowing the boy might be getting into something he oughtn't against having to watch him while trying to work. Common sense quickly won out and he smiled, placing the child's hand in Frodo's. "Now, you mind your manners with Master Baggins, lad. I'll be just there in the shed, all right?"

Frodo held the warm little fingers in his own and grinned at the boy, who smiled shyly back. He'd had plenty of experience with hobbit-children in Buckland, and rather liked playing with them when he wasn't traipsing through the woods or reading. The child looked into Frodo's eyes and stared wonderingly.

"Bue," he said, unblinking.

"What?" Frodo asked, delighted at the child's speech.

"Yer eyes," lisped the lad. "They're bue."

"Ohh," said Frodo, understanding. "Buh-loo. My eyes are blue."

"Yes," the child responded solemnly. "Bue eyes."

"That is correct," Frodo answered, just as seriously. "Now tell me your name, little fellow, and I'll tell you mine."

Sam pulled away from Frodo's grasp and placed his hands on both hips, planting his weight squarely on his sturdy little legs. "Samwise Gam-gee," he carefully replied.

"Well, Mr. Gamgee, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance," Frodo said, shaking Sam's hand politely.

Startled at first, then grinning widely, little Sam shook Frodo's hand back, gripping with an alarming strength for his size. All shyness gone, he threw his arms over Frodo's knee and asked, "Wha's your name?"

Frodo leaned over, coming almost nose-to-nose with the child. "Frodo. Frodo Baggins."

"Fro-do," repeated the boy, having difficulty with the R. "Fo-do Bagsins." He stuck out his hand, obviously expecting the requisite hand-shake. Frodo supplied it, fighting back giggles at the child's attempt to pronounce his name.

The two hobbits had made excellent company for one another for nearly an hour before Frodo began to feel the cold. Though Sam was well-clad, Frodo recalled the fact that the lad had been ill recently and knew he shouldn't take a chill. They went into the smial and Sam was soon seated at Bilbo's kitchen table, legs swinging. A small tumbler of milk, along with some ginger bread and sliced apple, sat before him. Frodo made tea and was pouring a cup when Mr. Gamgee came in. He persuaded the gardener to stay for a sip and a bite before going home, and they spent a pleasant half hour together before the Gamgees had to go. Little Sam jumped into the conversation frequently; Frodo noticed that overall the boy's language skills were quite good, punctuated only here and there with funny little words and phrases, not the least of which was 'Fo-do', which the child enunciated with frank admiration for the 'big hobbit boy' by that name.

At last it was time for the gardener and his son to leave, and Frodo knelt on the floor to tell little Sam goodbye. They shook hands solemnly, but Sam left with a grin and a pocket full of cookies to take home, and a promise from the elder Gamgee that he'd let the boy come back again for a visit if the weather held.

Frodo saw them to the door and stood looking out the window at the pair. He watched until they

disappeared over the hill, and sighed. The sun was sinking on the horizon, and the air felt suddenly chilly. Frodo threw a log onto the fire, then went back into the kitchen to start dinner, wanting to have everything ready when Bilbo returned home.

--

"Are you warm, lad?"

Frodo heard Bilbo's voice but not the words, turning to his cousin inquisitively. "Sorry?"

"I asked if you were warm enough," repeated the older hobbit. Frodo nodded and turned to look out over the fields again, his thoughts far away.

"I imagine you're glad to be going home again, eh? I hear the youngsters have been asking after their favorite cousin."

Frodo smiled, still looking at the fields. "They would," he commented. "And Baby Merry's fairly glued to me whenever he isn't sleeping or eating," he chuckled, slipping a glance at Bilbo.

Bilbo smiled back, but Frodo was again looking at the road in front of them. Something was bothering the boy, but Bilbo couldn't bring himself to pry. Frodo had recovered without incident at Bag End. As he regained his strength, he was soon helping with household chores, preparing meals, and generally making himself useful. Granted—he had not been his old chattery self, but he seemed happy enough, and content. A thought niggled at the back of Bilbo's mind, something of which might explain his young cousin's quietness, but he pushed it away, marking it as part of the boy's growing-up pangs. After all, young Frodo had been through quite a lot in the last four weeks—one could only expect him to be introspective. Once back at Brandy Hall, he'd be back to his old self in no time, especially in the company of his cousins and the other children.

The good hobbit's head was a muddle with these and similar thoughts all the way back to Buckland and lasting through his brief visit. He grew somewhat alarmed when he saw Frodo next to other children—how much weight the boy had shed, but he felt better when he witnessed Frodo's reception at the huge smial, and especially the affection lavished upon the boy by the little ones. Frodo was kept busy for the rest of the day and well into the evening before being dragged off to bed by the rambunctious children, managing only to throw a boisterous 'good-night' over his shoulder.

But the next morning Bilbo found that the anxious feeling was back—like an itch that couldn't be

scratched—the feeling that he was overlooking something, missing something. After breakfast, he packed his overnight things and put them on the cart. Frodo helped him harness the pony, painfully quiet as he worked. Bilbo came up on the side of the pony opposite Frodo and began fastening the harness. He bent over to check a strap and placed his hand on the pony's back to balance himself, inadvertently touching Frodo's hand, which was similarly occupied. Both hobbits raised up and peered at each other over the pony, smiling in surprise. Frodo's eyes soon dropped back to his work, and the opportunity was lost.

Bilbo came around to Frodo's side of the cart and said goodbye to the several hobbits who had exited the smial to bid him farewell. There was much shaking of hands and hugs, and not a few pennies and treats handed out to the little ones, before Bilbo was able to get into the cart. Frodo stood at the pony's head, holding it steady against the swell of hobbits pressing in on them. Now the crowd was slipping away, glad to get back inside on such a windy, cold day. At last it was just the two of them, looking at each other wordlessly along the distance between them.

"Well, I'd best be off," Bilbo said, his heart sinking strangely.

"Are you bundled up enough against the cold?" Frodo asked, his voice sounding strained.

"Don't you worry about me, lad. I'll be fine. You'd better get inside before you catch a chill."

"I will, Uncle," Frodo replied, forcing a smile. He let go the harness and stepped back from the animal. Bilbo picked up the reins and chirruped, and the pony set out. He started down the lane which soon made a sharp turn, giving Bilbo one last view of the smial before he went over a low hill. There in front a slender figure still stood, his arm upraised in farewell. Bilbo threw up his own arm, rising from the seat, keeping it up until he could see Frodo no more.

_Uncle_, Bilbo mused. _Wonder why he calls me that?_ The cart started down the other side of the hill, and Bilbo sat back down, pulling the muffler up over his chin. He looked at the path before him, trying to concentrate on getting home, but all he could see was the image of Frodo standing in front of the great smial of Buckland, looking utterly alone.

--

Frodo turned back toward the large, rambling dwelling tucked under the sod of the hill, doors and

windows shut against the encroaching cold. Soon there would be the Harvest Festival, after that the Yule season. There would be much to do; he looked forward to the activities which would keep him busy. Merry and the other children would take up much of his time, as well. But first and foremost, he would go over to Farmer Maggot's tomorrow and make up the last day of work he owed the good hobbit. His stomach tightened at the thought of going over there—it was silly, he knew, feeling terror of the old farmer simply because of fever-induced dreams—but the whole experience had been difficult, very difficult, and his child's heart didn't want to be reminded of it, not for a long, long time. He would endure tomorrow, and work as hard as he could, but once done, he would never—ever—set foot willingly upon the Maggot farmstead again.

"Cuzzy!" Merry called, toddling toward him as he shut the door behind him.

"He doesn't want you out of his sight now you're back," laughed the girl who tended the little boy. "It seems that Poppy's hiding somewhere and young Meriadoc refuses to eat until we find her."

Frodo picked up the tiny hobbit and held him close, thinking that the event of elevenses would be enough to lure a growing hobbit lad or lass from any hiding place, no matter how secure, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Children were fun, interesting, too, but they were a lot of trouble and made a great deal of work. It was obvious that Bilbo, whether or not entertaining any thoughts of letting Frodo stay with him awhile, had now come to the conclusion that having a youngster in Bag End would simply be too much for the older hobbit to handle. Frodo had attempted to be agreeable while he was there: curbing his tongue when he'd rather let it wag, keeping his fanciful ideas to himself though they clamored to be shared, working in the smial when he'd rather be outside hiking the fields and woods. He thought he had pleased Bilbo, and to be fair, knew that he had, but Bilbo was an old bachelor who was set in his ways and didn't need a teenager underfoot.

He straightened his shoulders, resignation in his eyes. Buckland was his home—and he was more than half a Brandybuck, wasn't he? He would grow up here, among his parents' people, and try to make some kind of life for himself. What that might be, he couldn't bring himself to think about just now, because. . .

Because just now there was a little Poppy Brandybuck hiding somewhere in the shadows, and Merry needed his help in finding her. It was, after all, nice to be needed. . .

The End


End file.
